


Angels and Airwaves

by charvelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Addiction, Bullying, Eventual Smut, High School AU, M/M, Mental Illness, Musician!Dean, Self-Harm, Substance Abuse, Therapy, Top!Cas, artist!Cas, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:38:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 80,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1781035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charvelle/pseuds/charvelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For both Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak, junior year of high school was a disaster. Now it's senior year and they're both desperate for a new start. Dean is trying for a scholarship, so he can get out of his father's house and maybe put his music skills to use. Castiel is just trying to make it to graduation. After that, he's off to Princeton, even though he'd much rather study art somewhere else.</p><p>The two boys have never spoken before. Dean knows he's not good enough for Cas, who's from one of the richest families in the city. Cas, on the other hand, has crushed on Dean for years but is convinced the school bad-boy doesn't know he exists. After a few chance encounters, the boys begin to realize they might find their new beginnings in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Week

**Author's Note:**

> This is a high school AU I started to write to help get me through hellatus. It's getting pretty long already, I'm not sure about the plot and I don't know if I'll keep it up, but just thought I'd give it a shot on AO3. Yes, the title is after the band Angels and Airwaves (I plan to work that into the story I swear). 
> 
> Therapy and mental illness are things that are very prevalent in my life, so it takes a pretty prevalent place in this fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist: 
> 
> Amazing Because It Is by The Almost  
> Secret Crowds by Angels & Airwaves  
> Hello, I'm In Delaware by City & Colour  
> Neptune by Sleeping At Last  
> Feel Real by Deptford Goth  
> Angeles by Jensen Ackles  
> This Could Kill Me by Amy Stroup  
> Angels by The xx  
> A Little's Enough by Angels & Airwaves  
> Forgive Me by City & Colour  
> Do It For Me Now by Angels & Airwaves  
> Sirens by Angels & Airwaves  
> Peace by O.A.R.

 

Castiel always felt uncomfortable when adults told him to “have a seat”. It immediately made him suspicious, because it gave off the impression of either treating him like an adult, or like a child; which he was neither. Still, when the school guidance counselor said these words and gestured to the armchair across her desk, he sat.

The chair was the second reason to be suspicious. No chair in a high school office should be that large and comfortable; it was obviously supposed to make you feel better about sitting there for longer than you wanted.

“Mr. Novak.” The counselor sat down behind her desk and studied him, a warm smile on her lips. On her desk there was a framed picture of Leonard Cohen and a name plaque, which read _Bela Talbot, PhD_. There was no pristine diploma on the wall. She looked young – too young to be an experienced counselor. Cas narrowed his eyes a little.

“Castiel.” He said, shifting uneasily in the chair. Only his siblings called him Cas; his full name felt like a reassuring barrier.

“Alright.” She smiled. “Castiel. I’m Ms. Talbot, but you can call me Bela if you wish. It looks like we’re going to be spending some time with one another this year.”

Cas was bouncing his knee in agitation. “My brother’s idea.”

“Yes. I spoke with Bartholomew on the phone earlier.” Bela’s eyes never left Cas’ face. It made him nervous. “He seems quite worried about you.”

Castiel didn’t say anything. It wasn’t technically a question, so he didn’t have to respond, right?

“How has your first week of senior year been?” Bela switched tracks. Cas shrugged, looking down at his hands.

“It’s about the same.” He said. God, this was useless; what was he supposed to get out of these sessions, anyways? He already knew that when it came to anything important, he was going to lie through his teeth. He was just wasting this poor woman’s time.

“I see in my file that, apart from last year’s brief hiatus, your grades are quite good.” Bela was swiveling a little in her chair. “Are you thinking of applying to college?”

Castiel nodded. College, grades – this was safe ground. He could navigate this. All he had to do was say what she wanted hear.

“I’m not sure what I want to study, but yeah, I’d like to go to college.”

“Your education is important to you, then?”

Castiel wasn’t sure what she was getting at. “Actually, I just want to get out of my house.”

Bela tilted her head a little. “Are you unhappy at home?” 

Cas kept his face composed. “Not necessarily. I just don’t feel like it’s my home, that’s all.”

“And why is that?”  
                    
_Hell if I know._ He shrugged.

“You live with your brothers, yes?” Bela pressed.

“With Bartholomew, now that he’s back. Gabe left for college a week ago.”

“How’s life at home with him gone?”

Cas frowned a little. “It’s… quieter.”

Bela gave a small smile, as if she knew what Cas meant. Which she probably did – she had been around to witness Gabriel’s last year of high school. It was like one long year of senior pranks.

“Is it just you and Bartholomew at home?” Bela lifted her hand, resting her chin delicately on her fingers in a very psychiatrist-like gesture.

“Yeah. My dad’s living out of the country right now. Business.”

Bela still had that small, curious frown. “What kind of business?”

“Mission work.” Cas supplied. If he mentioned his father’s name, he was sure Bela would know who he was immediately. But he didn’t necessarily want her to. “Last I heard, he was in Africa.”

“And your mother?”

“She died shortly after I was born.” Castiel said this levelly. ”I never knew her. Should you be writing any of this down?”

Cas had tilted an eyebrow, looking at her bare desk. Bela dropped her hand and smiled.

“I’m sorry. I know this must seem like a lot of questions. I just want to lay the groundwork; get to know you.”

“Doesn’t it say all of these things in my file?”

“I wanted to hear it from you.”

Cas nodded but didn’t say anything. He could see that file now, perched on the edge of her desk. His fingers itched.

“Your file also shows,” Bela said, leaning forward a little, “That you had quite good grades all through your freshman and sophomore years. Art is obviously your strong point. But things took quite a dive after your second term of last year. Did something happen around that time?”

Cas was looking at his hands again. There was a smudge of blue ink near one of his knuckles, and he rubbed it obsessively. It wouldn’t come off.

“Not really. I just lost interest.”

“You lost interest in school?”  
“In everything.”

Bela was quiet for a moment. “Right after your grades dropped, you ran away from home. Did you want to talk about that at all?” 

Cas looked up at Bela sharply. Did she honestly expect him to say yes?

Bela smiled thinly, as if reading his mind.

“Perhaps not today.” She said. “Castiel, I can tell you’re not thrilled with the idea of seeing me. But this is the arrangement Bartholomew has decided on, and he is your acting guardian. Just try to remember – I’m not your enemy. I want to help you.”

Cas was still staring at her, his blue eyes distrustful. Sure, he believed that she wanted to help him. The only problem was that he was certain he didn’t want her to.

 *

It was his first full week as a senior, and all Dean Winchester could think of was how nothing had changed. All his classmates were practically strutting around the halls, acting like they owned the place. Idiots. Everything was still the same: everyone hung out in the same clicks, they still smoked by the same back stairwell, and the same kids played the same sports. The fact that they were seniors now was irrelevant.

Jo rolled her eyes when he expressed this sentiment to her.

“God, Winchester, you’re such a downer.” She said, stuffing her biology textbook into her locker. “And that’s not true. Haven’t you noticed? Everyone else gets pretty new clothes each year. Meanwhile, how old is that Zeppelin t-shirt?”

Dean looked down at his shirt, thumbing the faded black material. “Hey, I like this shirt.”

“Also,” Jo continued, shutting her locker, “We get to use the good guitars in Lafitte’s class. Now _that_ is senior privilege at its best.”

“Fine, you got a point there.” Dean allowed. He fell into step with Jo as they walked down the hall, toward their music class. It was the only class of the day that Dean actually enjoyed. Of course that would mean he had to wait until the end of the day for it.

The music room was situated in a back corner, sandwiched between the tiny school theatre and the art studio. It didn’t have any windows. Just thinly carpeted walls and a high ceiling – perfect acoustics. The floor was made of steps and littered with chairs and music stands.

Dean felt his muscles relax as he stepped into it. He’d never pegged himself as a music geek – he had a difficult time reading notes, and he couldn’t play any other instrument to save his life. But he could remember the first time he’d picked up a guitar: one near-freezing autumn night, out with Rufus and Bobby in the scrap yard. Rufus had passed Dean his ancient guitar and Dean rested it on his knee, hugged it with his right arm and felt the strings vibrate across his fingers…

Dean got straight A’s, but that was because he worked his ass off to get them. Music was his best class without hardly any effort. It was the only class where Jo teasingly called him “teacher’s pet”.

Okay, so Dean had to admit that Mr. Lafitte showed a preference toward him over a lot of his other students. But he seemed to favour Jo, too. And that definitely had its perks. Just like today, when most of the class was practicing a complicated fingerpicking sequence in Minuet in G, Dean and Jo had been given the task of brushing up on “Dueling Banjos”. They passed the time like this, Jo with her arm slung over the school’s only banjo, and Dean complimenting each note she played with a pluck of his guitar.

“So,” Jo said, once they’d run through the sequence a few times, “This year doesn’t have to be _exactly_ the same as last.”

Dean looked up at her. He knew what she was getting at, and he was actually surprised it had taken her this long to bring it up. But in the middle of guitar class was the last place he really wanted to talk about it.

“Who cares?” He said in a low voice, looking down at his guitar and plucking a few random notes. “It’s just one more year. Then we’ll be clear of this place anyways.”

“Come on,” Jo leaned forward, cheeriness forced into her voice, “Can you be a little optimistic? There are lots of things that can be good about this year.”

“Can you drop it?” Dean’s voice was a low growl now. “You don’t have to fix me, Jo; you’re not my goddamn therapist.”

Jo recoiled slightly, but she took it in stride; she was used to him lashing out by now. Still, Dean felt guilty. It wasn’t Jo’s fault. She was only trying to help.

Frustrated with himself, he set his guitar against his music stand and went to get some fresh air. He saw Mr. Lafitte watching him out of the corner of his eye, but the teacher didn’t say anything.

The September day outside was insufferably bright. Dean squinted, leaning against the school’s brick wall as he pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket. He’d promised Sam he’d quit. And he would – just after this pack.

Dean lit the smoke and rested his head against the wall, inhaling. Glancing sideways, he caught a reflection of himself in the art studio’s windows.

He looked like shit. There were dark circles under his eyes, almost as if he were recovering from a broken nose. The product of not having slept in two days. His light brown hair was mussed and sticking at odd angles. There was a faint shadow along his jaw from not having shaven in a while. He looked like he was nursing an incredible hangover. No one would think this was the result of being clean for two weeks.

But that was just it – nobody _did_ think that. Dean had hoped – stupidly – that the summer would act as a big enough buffer between him and what happened at the end of last year. But it hadn’t. He still saw other kids staring at him as he walked by. He saw how the older kids would point and whisper to the freshman behind his back: explaining that that one, that kid _right there_ , he was the stupid junkie who’d almost died at the homecoming baseball game last year…

Dean pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and flicked ash onto the asphalt. As his reflection shifted, he was able to see the classroom on the other side of the window. Kids sat at high and long tables, expanses of paper beneath their elbows, paint-smeared canvases on the walls, lumps of clay sitting in random corners…

Dean caught the eye of a few students. They glanced out the window nervously, probably wondering why Dean Winchester was allowed to have a smoke during class hours and yet guessing it was because no teacher dared bother him. He didn’t know which was worse: when they looked at him with pity or when they glared with contempt.

While most of the class stared – even nudged their neighbor and started whispering, nodding toward the window – there was one kid who didn’t seem to have noticed. He had dark, ink-black hair that was swept up in a way that was either very intentional or quite by accident. There was a dark smear of charcoal across his angular jaw, and his blue eyes were glued to the large sheet of paper in front of him. It was blank.

With this boy, Dean was the one to uncomfortably look away. Castiel Novak. Dean had never said two words to the kid in his life; actually, he was certain they’d never even had a class together. But something about him always stirred some kind of curiosity in Dean, which he never allowed himself to satisfy.

Dean dropped his smoke to the ground and stepped on it. As he turned to go back inside, he looked once more into the art studio, taking in the students’ wary stares and the oblivious boy in the back.

No, nothing had changed at all.

 

 


	2. Pipe Dreams

There was nothing about the Novak house that didn’t resemble a castle. It was tall, big and beautiful, and sat near the top of the hill that held the city’s richest neighborhood. Glass windows reflected the blue South Dakota sky and a pair of massive oak French doors faced the street. Attached to the house was a four-door garage.

Slowly, one of the garage doors began to open. A black Nissan Skyline glided up the driveway and into the garage, its engine emitting a low rumble through the sleepy neighborhood.

As the garage door closed behind him, darkness fell around Castiel. He cut the engine of the car that he still thought of as Gabriel’s, even though his older brother had given it to Cas a few days before leaving for Princeton.

Cas had done his part to make the car look a little less ostentatious. He’d switched out the silver rims for the original ones, removed the gigantic spoiler from the back and got rid of the window tints. Even though the black paint job was pretty plain, the car still looked like the ride of a douchebag 17-year-old kid with a trust fund. Cas hated it.

Inside, the house was just how it always was: bright, cool, and impeccably clean. The only thing that seemed out of place now was that it was eerily still and quiet.

With Gabriel, there had always been some form of noise: laughter from a group of friends, the sound of the TV on too loud, music blaring through the stereo. Bartholomew, on the other hand, could be in the house for hours without making any noise at all.

As Cas walked through the house, he thought how he should call “hello” to see if anyone else was there, even if it was just the cleaning lady. But the thought of his voice shattering the silence made him wince, so he kept his mouth closed. He just dropped his backpack on a chair in the cavernous living room and wandered down the hall, towards the office that used to be his father’s.

It was there he found Bartholomew, just like Cas knew he would. The young man was sitting behind his father’s old desk, his dark blonde hair washed and gelled into place and his posture impeccable beneath a power suit. His eyes were intent on the glowing screen of the Mac in front of him. 

“Cas,” He said, glancing up at his brother. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Cas leaned against the doorframe, glancing down at his feet. The toes of his converse sneakers just touched the edge of the office carpet, but he was careful not to let them cross over.

“How was your appointment with Ms. Talbot today?” Bartholomew asked. Cas crossed his arms and shrugged. His older brother truly looked up from his computer now, taking a moment to properly register Cas’ posture and facial expression. Cas’ family was used to his reluctance to talk.

“Look, I know you hate the idea.” Bartholomew’s eyes went back to the screen. “But things are going to be different around here now that I’m back home. Gabe let you have far too much time on your own. It wasn’t healthy.”

Castiel swallowed, feeling anger colour his face but still remaining silent. Bartholomew could say what he wanted about Gabriel, but when it came down to it, Castiel preferred the middle brother’s presence.

“What’s best,” Bartholomew went on, “Is that you focus on schoolwork. You’re a smart kid, Cas; you just need to utilize yourself better. Once you get into college, you can’t go on these stints where you don’t talk to anybody or go outside. That’s not how the real world works.”

Cas balled his hands into fists and squeezed, hard, until he could feel his fingernails pushing into this skin. Bartholomew always went on these endless rants, which he was absolute certain were pep talks and in Cas’ best interest. In reality, each word felt like a length of rope tightening around Cas’ chest, until he was afraid he couldn’t breathe. The sensation of his nails in his skin grounded him.

“I talked to your principle.” Bartholomew was still rambling on, though his fingers were tapping away steadily on his keyboard, “and we’re sure you’ll still be able to graduate with honours, if you keep your nose clean and stay focused, which I’m sure you can. I know that you have a spot waiting at Princeton, but that doesn’t mean you can’t work for it, despite what Gabriel thinks. We have a reputation to uphold.”

Now, Bartholomew stopped typing, and he looked up at Castiel again. Cas’ jaw flexed and he nodded.

“Good.” Bartholomew said, effectively closing the lecture. He crossed his arms on the desktop and attempted a small smile. “I think this year will be better for you, Cas. It’s a new start. With me here and Gabe gone, things will be different. Better. You’ll see.”

Cas took a breath, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. He looked at Gabe, thinking he should say something back, but in the end settled with giving his brother a small nod before retreating to his room.

 Cas’ room was upstairs, with a window facing the expansive back yard. It was, thankfully, nothing like the rest of the house. The walls were covered with art: prints of Klimt and Toulouse-Lautrec (Cas’ favourites) along with sketches of his own, and Anna’s. There was a tall, floor-to-ceiling shelf, which was crammed with books, and a desk littered with miscellaneous drawing tools.

The room smelled like paper and pastel and the wind coming through the open window. It was the only place Cas could ever relax.

He didn’t feel that way today, though. Even with the door closed and the sound of birds outside, the tension just wouldn’t leave his muscles. He had his backpack in one hand, and inside he could feel the weight of all his textbooks: Calculus, Advanced Chemistry, Advanced Biology, Psychology and Art History. He had homework in every single one of those classes, and he was already behind in Chem.

_You just need to utilize yourself better._ Cas dropped the backpack on his bed and unzipped it. He pulled out a few textbooks and took them to his desk, pushing conte crayons and smudge sticks to the side.

_… You can’t go on these stints where you don’t talk to anybody or go outside. That’s not how the real world works._ Cas flipped open his chemistry textbook and tried to read, but all he could hear were Bartholomew’s words repeated back to him.

As he struggled to make something from that textbook stick, Castiel was certain that his brother was right: when it came down to it, Cas’ inability to be a functioning teenager really was his own fault. Everything about the past few years had been his fault. And he had no idea how to make any of it better.

 

 

As he took the corner and his house came into view, Dean experienced his usual reaction when he saw that his father’s car was in the drive: dread so thick and heavy that it stuck in his stomach and made his appetite disappear. Swallowing, he pulled his bike up to the curb and cut the engine.

It was a good thing Sammy was at practice. This way, Dean could deal with his father however he was – suspiciously okay, stinking drunk, or on a raging tear – without worrying about Sam being caught in the crosshairs.

John had been gone on a weeklong training assignment in Fort Meade. Dealing with new recruits could either be a little beneficial or extremely detrimental for John Winchester’s mental health. More often than not, something would happen to trigger the PTSD – something like a new troop resembling an old friend, or a drill going wrong. The man would somehow manage to keep himself together until he got home, where he’d dutifully fall to pieces where only his two sons could see or experience the consequences.

Dean made his way up the front walk, inspecting the outside of their little house carefully. The small, slightly dirty windows were dark and reflected the bright day outside. The metal screen door was closed and no sound came from inside – no music, no shouting voices. Bones wandered idly in the backyard. It was as if no one was home at all.

As he opened the front door, Dean gripped his motorcycle helmet with one hand. It had been a while since he’d had to defend himself or Sammy, but that didn’t stop him from being prepared, and that thick helmet had served as a good self-defense weapon before.

The house was quiet and smelled faintly of cigarettes. No lights were on, and everything seemed to be how he’d left it that morning, but when Dean looked down his eyes fell on a pair of scuffed and wrinkled army boots. His stomach tightened.

“Dad?” He called out, closing the door and kicking off his own boots. His grip remained tight on his helmet.

“In here.” John’s answer was low and calm, and his words weren’t slurred. This was a good sign. Dean followed the voice into the kitchen, where he found his dad at the table. His dark eyes were reading that morning’s paper, and there was a bottle of beer at his elbow, mostly empty. When Dean walked in, John lifted his head and gave his son a small smile.

“Hey Dean.”

“Hey.” Dean leaned against the counter and rested his helmet against his leg. With a small breath of relief, he thought how he probably wouldn’t need to be using it.

“Where’s your brother?” John took a sip from his beer.

“Practice.” Dean said. “First one of the season.”

“That’s right.” John leaned back. “I keep forgetting. Well, that’s good, then. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

John gestured to the chair across from him. Dean hesitated, before setting his helmet on the kitchen counter, then walking over and sitting down.

“How’re you doing, Dean?” John asked, leaning toward his son and resting his arms on the kitchen able. Dean swallowed, looking down at his hands.

Most of the time, John Winchester was a tough man to be around. And that was putting it nicely. But Dean was always acutely aware that it was the world that made him that way. Watching the boys’ mom slowly die of cancer, then fighting for years in Iraq, had taken a heavy toll on John. Beneath everything, he was a good man. It was just very rare that anybody got to see that.

This was one of those rare moments. Something had happened, and the stars aligned so that in this moment, John Winchester was actually acting like a father. Dean wasn’t grateful. What he felt was more like resentment. No matter how many of these moments John could manage to conjure up now, it would never be enough to make up for the past.

“I’m fine.” Dean said. He didn’t think he’d ever answered that question truthfully, and he’d be damned if he was about to start now.

“You still seeing the school counselor?” John scratched the stubble on his jaw, looking a little uncomfortable. At first, he’d said that therapy was for “rich yuppies”. He’d changed his tune after the school threatened to call child services.

“Every Thursday.” Dean answered, not meeting his dad’s eyes.

“What about the drugs?” John answered, the note of an army sergeant’s authority slipping into his voice. Dean remembered the first time his father found out about all the shit Dean had been getting himself into. His ribs still ached as he thought about it, and he reached a hand up to touch them involuntarily.

“Haven’t touched ‘em.” Dean’s tone came out short and defensive. As much as John seemed to care about Dean being addicted, he never did anything to help him. It wasn’t John who’d found him under the bleachers at that baseball game.

“How long?”

“Two weeks.”

“That long, huh?” John’s voice came out with a twist of sarcasm, and something inside Dean winced but he didn’t let it show. He just stared down at his hands, his knee bouncing up and down with anxiety.

“Dean, you can’t lose your grip like you did last year. It’s time to grow up.” Good-Guy John was disappearing, and Dean knew better than to interrupt, even if anger and shame were making his cheeks hot. “Your stunt with drugs has already blown your chances of an army career to hell, so now you gotta start thinking about what you’re doing after school. Cause I’ll be damned if any kid of mine is gunna make a living selling weed out of a double-wide behind the Wal-Mart.”

Dean swallowed, not daring to point out that he’d only ever bought drugs, never sold them.

“I was talking to Bobby.” John went on, “And he says he can take you on full-time at the garage after you graduate. I know it’s not ideal, but it’s honest work and it pays the bills.”

Now Dean looked up, distaste creasing his brow. He loved Bobby, and it wasn’t the thought of being a mechanic that bothered him. He was sure that, if he got tied down to a job in Rapid City after school, then he would never leave. That thought was almost more than he could bear.

“What?” John demanded, his voice rising a little with anger when he saw his son’s reaction. “Bobby’s place not good enough for you?”

“No, it’s not that.” Dean said defensively, “It’s just… I was sort of thinking of getting out of South Dakota after high school.”

John scoffed. “And go where?” 

Dean shrugged sheepishly. “College, maybe.”

“College?” John raised his eyebrows, cruel amusement sparking his eyes. He took a swig of beer. “And who the hell is gonna pay for that? Listen, kid, we’re Winchesters. We’re army brats; that’s what we do. It’s the family business. And now, since you’ve ruined that option, you go straight into the workforce like the rest of the working stiffs.”

Dean’s jaw flexed. He didn’t mention to his dad that, with his grades, he had a good shot at a scholarship. He couldn’t remember the last time John had looked at one of the boys’ report cards, so it’s not like he would know. Besides, Dean was sure this information would just egg his father on.

“Dream all you want about college, Dean, but it’s not gunna happen. Who’s gonna let a junkie like you into their school?”

Now Dean did flinch, feeling the sting of that comment right down to his bones. His chair scraped against the floor as he stood up, heading for the door.

“ _Hey_ ,” John raised his voice, and there was a hint of a threat laced into it. “You can’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you.”

Dean stopped, turning to face his dad. His hands were balled into fists at his sides.

“See, you keep saying that,” Dean’s voice was strangely calm, “But I keep doing it.”

_Shut up, Dean, shut up, why can’t you ever just shut up?_ John looked at his son, a cool anger lighting in his eyes. Fear made Dean’s muscles tense, but as always, his reaction to this was fight rather than flight. John stood up, the motion slow and measured, and Dean’s heart pounded.

“Watch the attitude.” John made the words a command, not a request. “I may not be around much, but I’m your father, and you can show me some damn respect.”

For a few chilling seconds, Dean met his father’s gaze.

“Here’s how it’s going to be.” John stood a little straighter, and everything about him hinted at an army man laying down the law, “I’m not scheduled for another overnight assignment for a few weeks. In that time, you better buck up and get your shit together. You’re going to stay clean, go to all your classes, and work at Bobby’s on the weekends. Got it?”

Dean swallowed. A part of him wanted to refuse, just to spite his dad. But by this time Dean knew how to pick his battles.

“Yeah.” Dean said, though his lip curled a little with distaste. John didn’t miss it.

“Excuse me?” John raised his eyebrows. Dean’s jaw tensed.

“Yes _sir_.”

 

For the longest time, Dean had suspected that Sam was adopted. It was the only option that made sense. As much as Dean resented his old man, he couldn’t deny he shared a gene pool with him: they shared the same tough frame, a preference for various forms of inebriation, and they were both prone to anger, though the two expressed it in different ways.

Sam was nothing like this. He was tall and gangly and his eyes were calm and warm. Instead of the fair, freckled skin of his brother and dad, Sam’s skin was smooth and easily tanned. He was always smiling and was freakishly smart, and he excelled in nearly every sport he played. Even though Sam was a sophomore, he played on the senior football and baseball teams.

Dean supposed he could expect Sam had inherited some of these things from their mother, but he wouldn’t know. They weren’t supposed to talk about her.

The morning was crisp and cool, and when Dean stepped out beneath the rain clouds he saw that Sam was already on the sidewalk. He was wearing his usual outfit of blue jeans and letterman jacket, and his hands were wrapped around the straps of his backpack.

“Dude,” Dean said, making his way down the walk with his helmet under his arm, “You have _got_ to be the only guy in school who gets a ride from his girlfriend instead of the other way around.”

Sam glared at his brother over his shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Hey, I’m not judging.” Dean shrugged, a teasing smile on his face. “Just an observation.”

“We can’t all be the irresistible bad boy on a motorcycle, Dean.” Sam shot back. Dean laughed, throwing his leg over his Harley Roadster.

“Livin’ the dream.” He said, and Sam shook his head.

“Yeah, speaking of that,” Sam walked a little closer to the bike, his brow creasing, “I talked to Dad last night. What’s this he’s saying about you working at Bobby’s after graduation?”

The smile slipped from Dean’s face. “It’s nothing, Sam. He just thinks he has the right to plan my whole future out for me.”

“Yeah, well, that isn’t much of a future.” Sam was watching Dean intently.

“You’re telling me. But what am I supposed to do about it?”

“I thought you wanted to go to college?” Sam pressed, and Dean shifted uncomfortably. Sam was the only other person he’d talked to about that.

“It was a pipe dream, Sammy. Dad’s right. What college is gunna let an ex-junkie in? Besides, we can’t afford it.” Dean’s face was a mask of logic. He pulled his helmet on his head and did up the strap, while Sam watched him with a sad expression.

“Jesus, Sam, don’t look at me like that.” Dean frowned at him. “Don’t worry about it, okay? It’s not your problem.”

Sam looked like he was about to say something else when a shiny blue Civic rounded the corner, its engine rumbling through the quiet morning. The two boys fell silent as they watched it.

 The Civic pulled up the curb, and Jess’ smiling face came into view over the steering wheel. She lifted a hand and waved to Dean, who waved back. Sam started to walk toward the passenger side, and as he did he turned to his brother and said,

“It’s not a pipe dream, Dean.”

Dean didn’t say anything, just watched as Sam climbed into the car and leaned over to give his girlfriend a quick kiss. Then he flipped the visor of his helmet down, kick-started his bike and sped off down the street, leaving his house and the blue Civic in a wake of smoke.


	3. Notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy people are actually reading this and liking it :)

“Remind me again why you’re doing this.” Anna Milton stood with a hand on her hip, her wide eyes skeptical as she watched Castiel thumb through huge sheets of Stonehenge paper in the art supply room.

“Extra credit.” Cas answered in a distracted tone. The texture of the paper was good, but the colour was throwing him off – it was too white.

“Why do you need extra credit?”

“I told you. To make up for the classes I missed last year.” Cas found a sheet of grey paper and pulled it out with triumph. “Ms. Talbot said I could do extra work in any of my classes, so it may as well be art, right?”

He glanced up at Anna as he pushed the paper drawer closed and headed for the door. Anna followed, crossing her arms.

“I guess. I’m worried about you, though, Cas. You’re taking way too many classes and you’re already stressed as it is.”

“I’ll be fine, Anna.” Cas tried not to roll his eyes. Anna wasn’t normally a worrier, but she liked to worry about Cas. “Besides, I don’t have much of a choice. I need all the pre-requisites I can get if I want to take the right courses in college.”

Even to Cas, his voice didn’t sound like his. He was aware he was just spitting Bartholomew’s words out to Anna. She knew it, too, because she raised a thin eyebrow at him dubiously.

“Fine.” Cas relented, putting the sheet of Stonehenge down on a table and pulling up a stool. “So I’m a little stressed, okay? But this isn’t helping.”

He gestured to Anna’s disapproving posture, and she dropped her arms, her face softening.

“Sorry.” She muttered, sitting on a stool next to Cas. “I’ll shut up. So, what’s your extra credit assignment?”

Cas pulled a tiny box of Conte crayons out of his bag and set them beside the paper. “Figure study.”

Anna raised her eyebrows. “Cas.” She deadpanned, “All you draw is figure studies.”

“Well, Mrs. Braeden said I should work to my strengths. I just need to challenge myself.”

“And how’re you going to do that?”

“I don’t know.”

The two fell quiet for a moment, Anna watching as Cas made a few experimental sketches on a scrap piece of newsprint. He hated when people watched him draw, but he was used to it with Anna.

Other students were slowly trickling in. Class didn’t officially start for another five minutes, but the “art freaks” like Castiel and Anna were always a little early. The kids that wandered in now were the ones who typically took art for an easy credit.

One kid in particular, a tall blonde with a wolfish smile, spotted Castiel out of the corner of his eye. Cas felt his stomach tighten – and not in the good, full-of-butterflies kind of way. He swallowed and focused on the newsprint beneath his fingers, though his hands had started to shake. He pressed Conte to paper and began the rough shape of a torso.

The blonde kid walked behind Cas and eyed him as he slung his backpack off his shoulder. It hit Cas squarely in the elbow, sending prickling pain up his arm and a smear of Conte across the roughly drawn figure. Anna looked up sharply, but the boy kept moving, snickering over his shoulder as Cas shook out his hand. Cas didn’t say anything, just gritted his teeth and kept his head down.

Tyson Brady had been Cas’ tormentor since Cas had moved to Rapid City in sophomore year. It had started in his English class, when Tyson had been called upon to read from Shakespeare’s _Macbeth_. He’d stuttered and stalled his way through the antique language, and a few classmates hid their sniggers behind their hands. After he’d finished his section, the teacher called upon Cas.

Castiel had basically grown up on old English – it was a passion of his father’s. He picked up where Tyson left off, delivering each line in perfect Iambic pentameter, as the class listened in stunned silence. Cas hadn’t meant anything by it, but after class Tyson had pushed him up against a locker and accused Cas of making him look like an idiot.

Things had spiraled from there. If Cas was unlucky enough to share a class with Tyson, he found himself the target of endless ridicule – digs and teasing too small for teachers to notice, yet on purpose enough for Castiel to be bothered.

Really, it didn’t help that Castiel was so different. He didn’t really look like the other kids. His wardrobe consisted of fitted jeans, clean khakis, dark cardigans, button-up shirts and soft sweaters. The only thing that looked dirty or well worn were his pair of Chucks. His dark hair was always carefully swept up and away from his face; not hastily brushed and slightly dirty like the other boys’. His blue eyes were quiet and calculating, his writing was impeccably neat, and he was more knowledgeable about the classics than any boy his age had the right to be.

Kids like Tyson Brady were trained to hone in on oddballs like Castiel. If Tyson was a dusty cassette tape of Bruce Springsteen, Castiel was an old vinyl recording of Debussy. Throwing kids like them together in the same classroom bordered on cruelty.

Tyson took a seat at an empty stool at the end of the table. There were a few empty seats between them, but to Castiel it still felt too close. His jaw clenched as he crumpled up the ruined sketch and tossed it into the garbage.

“We can move.” Anna’s voice was quiet. “There’s an empty space by the window.”

“No,” Cas answered stiffly, “That’ll just provoke him. Besides, that would be letting him win.”

Anna pursed her lips, but dropped it. She pulled out her sketchpad from her bag, flipping it open to a glossy page of superhero women. The vibrant sketches wore shining armor and held gleaming, pointed blades. Intimidating wings sprouted from their backs.

Cas raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Wow, those look great.”

Anna blushed. “Thanks.”

“I thought you were doing Wonder Woman studies?”

“Yeah, well…” Anna shrugged, “I sort of had a dream about these, so I’m going with it.”

Cas took another moment to admire Anna’s work, before turning back to his pad of newsprint. As he did, he chanced a furtive glance over to Tyson.

He had brought out a hardly-used sketchpad, but it sat neglected at his elbow. He was sitting, looking utterly bored, with a hand propped beneath his chin as he idly flipped through a book of Andy Warhol.

Cas snickered to himself. Andy Warhol. Very original.

Time in art class passed by slowly, but Castiel never minded that. He wasn’t in any hurry to get home. As he threw out some more figure studies, he kept his Chemistry notebook open at his elbow so he could look over his notes as he drew. He had a test next week and he wasn’t anywhere near prepared for it.

Halfway through the hour, Mrs. Braeden stopped to peer over Castiel’s shoulder.

“Nice work.” She commented, reaching around him and pointing to his latest sketch, “I like the cross hatching in the back shadows here. What are you using for reference?”

“Um,” Cas cleared his throat, a little uncomfortable, “Nothing, really. I’m just drawing from memory.”

Mrs. Braeden raised her thin, dark eyebrows. “Wow. That’s impressive. But don’t get into that habit too often, or your anatomy might get a little skewed.”

Castiel nodded.

“Maybe take out some anatomy books from the library.” She suggested. “Or try drawing from a live model. It helps to keep your skills well-rounded.”

“Okay.” Cas smiled at her tentatively. “Thanks.”

Mrs. Braeden smiled back, touching Cas’ arm lightly as she continued past him.

“Brady,” Cas heard her say, “You’ve been flipping through that book for the past thirty minutes. I expect to see some real work done by the end of this class.”

“Yeah, okay.” Tyson answered.

Cas felt vindicated, and he fought to keep a slight triumphant look off his face. He liked how Mrs. Braeden seemed to be the only teacher who called Tyson by his last name and didn’t treat him like gold.

As Cas returned his focus to his work, Tyson pushed off his stool. Cas tensed as the kid walked past him, his heart speeding up just slightly. As Tyson turned right by Anna, he stumbled slightly and reached out to catch himself. As he did, he jostled the table and sent the small jar Anna had been using for watercolour toppling over.

Cas watched as water spilled across the table, heading swiftly for his paper. Acting quickly, he snatched up the Stonehenge and newsprint, only to watch as the water soaked into his chemistry notes.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Tyson said, his voice dripping sincerity but his face twisted up in a sneer. “That’s totally my bad.”

Anna had grabbed the jar, but she turned now to glare at him.

“Hey, at least you saved your drawing. Nice reflexes, Novak.” Tyson punched Castiel on the shoulder, a little too hard, and continued on his way. Castiel just stood, his drawings in one shaking hand as he watched the ink run across an entire week’s worth of chemistry notes.

 

Cas pushed through the door of the art room and into the empty hallway. He was carrying the soaked notebook, intending on trying to dry it beneath the blow driers in the bathroom. But he knew it was useless. The words were completely wiped and smeared now. He just shook them out, a growl caught in his throat, as he turned the corner outside of the classroom and leaned against the wall.

_Shit_. Everything he had learned in the first week was in those notes. He didn’t know anybody else in the AP chemistry class, and there wasn’t anyone he would even feel comfortable asking. He was almost certain that his chem teacher wouldn’t supply him with extra notes, either – even if he showed him what had happened. Mr. Henrikson was the coach of the senior football team, and a devout Tyson Brady supporter.

He was going to fail his first chemistry exam. That will set the tone for the entire year, and Mr. Henrikson will mark him more harshly the next time, and he will have to work even harder to get a passing grade. Then he’ll probably drop out of AP chem and have to take regular chemistry instead. Bartholomew will be furious, and him being furious will just stress Cas out because Cas is such a _spazz_ and then he’ll fail chemistry all together and he won’t be able to get into Princeton without a chemistry credit, paid-for spot or not, so he’ll have to go to community college and become an accountant instead. Then he’ll live a life of quiet desperation, and he’ll be forty and living in an apartment downtown with a cat or maybe just a goldfish, and Gabriel won’t even talk to him anymore because he’s so goddamn boring and _sad_ and then he’ll die alone all because he failed his grade twelve AP chemistry exam.

Cas slid down the wall, dropping his notes and burying his face in his hands. He knew his train of thought wasn’t exactly logical, but that didn’t matter because right then it felt very real. His breath was coming faster and he was getting dizzy.

_Oh God, no,_ Cas thought, _please don’t let me have a panic attack at school._

Cas just needed something to ground him – to keep his feet firmly on that crummy school linoleum floor, instead of floating off someplace where Cas could never get a grip. And Cas knew how he usually grounded himself, but he wasn’t supposed to do that anymore, and besides, anything he had that was sharp was back inside the classroom with his bag…

Cas tried to remember what the psychiatrist at the hospital had told him: notice things about your surroundings. Little, inconsequential things: colours, sounds, smells; try counting things. And breathe. Remember to breathe.

Lifting his head from his hands, Cas looked around. Just across from him, the door to the music room was open. A guitar class played inside. He counted four dark blue walls, and four grey, carpeted steps. There were eleven students and one teacher. There were four students on the first step, three on the second, two on the third, and two on the fourth step closest to the door.

That’s when Cas realized he knew the two kids closest to the door. Okay, maybe “knew” was a loose term. He knew that the girl’s name was Jo. She’d been in his English class that first year, and had been the only one to be friendly to Castiel after the whole Tyson situation. He recalled making amble chatter with her about the weather or homework.

The boy was Dean Winchester. And Cas “knowing” him meant all kinds of complicated things.

Castiel knew things about Dean that everyone else knew. He knew that he had a younger brother named Sam, and that it was a common knowledge that you _did not bother Dean Winchester’s little brother_. He knew that his dad was a drunk but nobody said anything, because he was a vet, for chrissake. Castiel knew that Dean played guitar, drove a vintage motorcycle and lived in a shitty part of town. He suspected he got into fights, because he had bruises pretty often, and that he was a brooding storm cloud of cigarette smoke, habitual drug abuse and suspected gang activity.

Cas also knew things that he was certain only he noticed: Castiel knew that the first time he saw Dean, Dean was wearing a red flannel shirt. He knew that Dean read books and actually used the school library, but always hid the books away before anyone saw him reading. He knew that Dean had a habit of rubbing the back of his neck and drawing on his arm.

Castiel also knew that he and Dean had never said one word to each other; they had never even been in the same class. And Cas knew that even though he had been the one to find Dean unconscious and barely breathing beneath a set of crowded bleachers, Dean still had no idea he existed.

Now, Cas’ eyes locked on the boy. He was wearing a grey shirt with the sleeves pulled up past his elbows, and there was a pair of battered Chuck Taylors on his feet. He was lightly strumming his guitar, playing a song Cas had heard once or twice on the college radio station but had never really paid attention to until now. Jo was quietly singing the words.

It wasn’t his usual kind of music, but something about it was keeping Cas’ breathing steady. Slowly, his muscles relaxed, and he rested his arms on his bent knees. The panic in his mind ebbed, and he leaned his head back against the wall and let his eyes fall closed.

He stayed like that, for a while. Just listening. When the song ended, he took a few deep breaths, before opening his eyes again and lifting his head. That’s when he saw that Dean Winchester was staring right at him.

Cas froze. Bright green eyes held his, and he was completely captivated. There wasn’t anything hard or mean in them, like Cas had been half expecting. Dean’s eyebrows were slightly lifted in this curious way, and he looked almost surprised. At any rate, he didn’t look away, and Cas just looked back, a slow blush creeping up his cheeks.

Then, Jo said something, and Dean jumped a little and looked away. At the break of eye contact, Cas’ breath came in a rush, and his heart was racing all over again. But in a very different way.

Shaking, Cas clambered to his feet. Mrs. Braeden was probably wondering where he was, and Anna, too. But before he rounded the corner and back to class, he looked over his shoulder one more time, just to reassure himself that it _had_ been Dean Winchester sitting in that chair and he hadn’t imagined the whole thing.

 

Finally, after nearly a week of revision, Mr. Lafitte had given Dean’s class an assignment: prepare a compilation of covers. There should be a theme: subject, artist, genre, era, etc. They could work in pairs if they wished. When he said this part, Mr. Lafitte’s eyes wandered to Dean and Jo, and they grinned at each other.

“Okay,” Jo said, practically chomping at the bit to get started, “What do you think for a theme? Because I was sort of thinking-”

“ _Not_ country.” Dean cut in.

“Oh, come on!” Jo pouted.

“Sorry, that’s my one veto.” Dean didn’t look sorry, because he really wasn’t. “How about-”

“Not classic rock.” Jo said, smiling smugly at him. “That’s _my_ veto.”

“ _Fine_.” Dean gritted his teeth, and pulled out his iPod. “Let’s just go through the covers we already know, maybe we can get the juices flowing.”

When they excluded country and classic rock, the covers that Dean and Jo knew were pretty selective. As time passed they ran through some Paramore, a few City & Colour and a My Chemical Romance song. There was a short argument about which Bob Dylan songs veered into classic rock or country and which ones were folk. They put a third veto on Joni Mitchell.

Jo was the singer out of the two of them. Dean’s singing was actually pretty good, but he only did it when he was sure no one could hear.

Dean was lightly strumming “Amazing Because It Is” – his favourite by The Almost – and Jo was singing along, when Dean absently glanced up. That’s when he saw the boy sitting in the hall outside of the door.

Castiel. The name pumped through Dean like a shot of alcohol. There was something about him that had always sort of fascinated Dean, for whatever reason – his bright blue eyes, his quiet voice, how dark his hair was, the way he dressed. He always seemed so guarded and composed; yet here he was, slumped on the floor with his head back and his eyes closed. Like he was fighting away some invisible breaking point. It was disconcerting.

Distracted, Dean slightly botched a chord progression but Jo didn’t seem to notice. They finished the song, and Jo took Dean’s iPod and scrolled through it. Dean set his guitar down, eyes still glued to Castiel.

Suddenly, the boy lifted his head and opened his eyes. When he saw Dean looking, his blue eyes widened, but neither of them looked away. All Dean knew was that he didn’t want to, so he allowed himself this small moment of indulgence. And the more he looked, the more his heart quickened, because there was the strangest feeling he got when he looked into those bright blue eyes – like he was remembering something he’d long since forgotten. He just couldn’t put his finger on what.

When Cas’ cheeks turned a delicate pink, Dean’s blood pumped faster.

“Dean,” Jo said, turning to him, “What about some Angels & Airwaves?”

“What?” Dean practically jumped and tore his eyes away.

“Angels & Airwaves.”

“Oh.” _Oh. Guitar class. Right._ “I dunno. You really think their sound will translate well to acoustic?”

“Hm, good point…” Jo bit her lip and continued scrolling. Dean looked back out to the hallway, but all he saw was a glimpse of black sweater and jeans disappearing around the corner.


	4. September Fourth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, this chapter ended up being a little more angst-y than I thought it would be. TW for mentions of self harm, and a bit of an intense scene at the end.

Dean would have put money on the bet that he was the only student to see the school counselor three years in a row. And not in that once-a-year, “let’s pick your classes and apply for college” kind of way. It was more in the “here’s where my psychiatry degree comes in handy” way.

He supposed it was a good thing nobody was taking that bet.

That first year it had been every Tuesday and Friday, then every Monday when he was a sophomore. For senior year, he was slotted to see Bela Talbot every Thursday after school.

Dean supposed he could have it worse. Bela was nice – she was understanding, patient, and it didn’t hurt that she was easy on the eyes. She didn’t order random searches on Dean’s locker like his first counselor had, though she would threaten him with it once in a while if he was being particularly asshole-ish. And her English accent made anything she said sound ridiculously logical – a definite perk for a school counselor.

Still, it was with a great reluctance that Dean walked into the waiting room of school services after guitar class. It’s not like he wanted to be home, but he still didn’t feel up for therapy. He’d managed to get three hours of sleep last night and it was nowhere near enough; he had been thinking of driving his bike out to Bobby’s and crashing on his couch for a while.

Dean checked in with the receptionist and took a seat in one of the plastic chairs against the wall. The table in front of him was littered with pamphlets for Planned Parenthood and community outreach programs. He put one foot on the edge of the table, bouncing his knee up and down, and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

The door to the waiting room opened. The sound of the crowded hallway drifted in and then was muffled again as the door swung closed, and Dean looked up, expecting to see any of the other punks or hoods who usually frequented this office.

Standing frozen at the door, one hand on the strap of his backpack, was Castiel Novak. He was staring at Dean, his mouth open a little in surprise, and for a moment Dean just looked back.

_Oh, for fuck’s sake,_ a voice growled in Dean’s head, _are you ever going to say anything to this kid? Or are you just going to stare at him like an idiot?_

To both of their surprise, Cas beat him to it.

“Hey,” He said, his voice quiet and adorably cautious. Dean sat up, dropping his foot from the table and pulling his hands out of his pockets. He cleared his throat a little, mustering up his courage.

“Hey.” Dean said, nodding at him. The receptionist peered around her computer.

“Hey, Cas, sweetie. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

Cas blushed a little and he muttered, “Thanks.”

Cas turned back to Dean, hesitating a little before walking over and taking the only other seat in the room, right beside him. Dean stiffened, his heart speeding up uncomfortably, but Castiel didn’t look any more at ease. He dropped his backpack at his feet and pulled at the sleeves of his sweater.

“Don’t worry,” Dean muttered, glancing at Cas out of the corner of his eye, “She still calls me sweetie, too.”

Cas looked over at him, the corner of his mouth turning up a little, but he didn’t say anything.

Dean had never had much to do with Castiel – aside from his own very slight, secret pining from a distance – but he was still surprised to see Cas in the school services office. People didn’t talk about Cas much, but when they did, the word was that he was a spoiled trust-fund kid with an imported car and a paid ride through college. Looking at him now, though, Dean had the suspicion there was more to the story than that.

“Here to see Bela?” Dean asked, aware he was being nosy but too curious to really care. Cas nodded.

“Yeah.” He answered, shooting Dean another nervous glance, “Just, um… career counseling.”

Dean looked over at Cas, searching the boy’s face quickly, and he knew he was lying. There was a challenging look to Cas’ eyes, though, as if he knew Dean suspected him and he was daring him to call him on it. Dean didn’t.

“Right.” He said, looking away.

“What about you?” Cas asked. Dean hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck and taking a breath.

“Same.” He said, giving Castiel a crooked grin. “Career counseling.”

At that, Cas narrowed his eyes a little, a small smile twitching at his lip as he tilted his head at Dean. As if he were a chameleon that had suddenly changed its colour. Dean looked back, his pulse quickening, when Bela’s office door opened and her head peered around it.

“Cas,” She said, eyeing the two boys, “I’m glad to see you. Dean, would it be all right if I pushed our appointment back fifteen minutes? That’s all it’ll take, I promise.”

Dean sat back, looking between Cas and Bela. He lifted his hands in a placating gesture.

“Sure, knock yourselves out.” He said. As if he were in a hurry to be in therapy. Cas didn’t meet Dean’s eyes as he stood up, slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked into Bela’s office. The door closed quietly behind him.

Dean propped his foot up on the table again, biting his lip through a grin. He glanced up at the calendar on the reception desk. _September 4, 2014: The Day I Finally Talked to Castiel Novak_.

 

“So,” Bela said, settling down in the chair behind her desk. Cas sat lightly on the edge of his own chair, making it clear he wasn’t intending on staying. “This won’t take long, like I promised. I wanted to see you because Mrs. Braeden gave me a quick call and said you were having some difficulty in your art class today.”

Cas felt a small pang of betrayal.

“I was.” He said stiffly. “But it wasn’t anything huge. I was just a little stressed, that’s all.”

“Stressed how?”

Cas shrugged. “I lost some chemistry notes, so I’m not going to be able to study. So I started to have a panic attack, but I’m fine now.”

“You started to?”

“Yeah.”

“But you stopped?

Cas nodded.

“How did you do that?”

Cas swallowed, glancing behind his shoulder to the door without meaning to. His hands were still shaking from his two-minute non-conversation with Dean Winchester.

“I just sort of breathed through it. Picked out colours, numbers. That sort of stuff.”

“Very good.” Bela looked genuinely happy, but her eyes were still worried. “So you didn’t resort to any harmful behaviours to hold off the attack?”

Cas shook his head. His knee began bouncing up and down.

“Would it be alright if you showed me?”

Cas’ face flushed with embarrassment. He knew he could refuse – it was his right. But he also knew that he had nothing to hide right now, and building some trust with Bela couldn’t hurt.

Muscles tense, Cas dropped his backpack to the floor and pushed up the sleeves of his shirt. In the dim light of the office, his skin looked pale. All along the insides of his forearms, from wrist to elbow, were thin and puckered scars, as sharp as the blades that had made them. But that was just the point – they were scars now. Old.

Bela looked over his arms, the nodded, satisfied.

“Thanks, Castiel.” She said, and Cas rolled his sleeves back down. “I know this seems a bit extreme, but I just want to make sure you’re safe. You said it was thoughts about failing a test that brought on your almost-attack?”

Cas nodded.

“It’s only the first full week of classes. Surely you know a test at this point won’t make or break your school career?”

Cas flinched at the word career. “No, I don’t know that.”

Bela frowned at him a little in concern. “You realize, as the year goes on, the schoolwork will only increase. Do you have any ideas for how to cope with the stress?”

Cas swallowed and shook his head.

“Alright, well, I think we just decided what our homework should be. I want you to think about some healthy coping mechanisms, and tell me your ideas when we meet next Wednesday. Maybe start with what helped you today.”

Cas nodded again. “Yeah, okay.”

 

When Castiel emerged from Bela’s office, his face was stony and his lips were set into a thin line. Dean watched him, peaking up discreetly through his eyelashes, while his fingers worried at the string bracelets around his wrist. Castiel walked past him but hesitated at the door, glancing over his shoulder at Dean for a split before pushing out into the hallway.

“Dean,” Bela’s voice caught Dean’s attention, “You can come on in, now.”

Dean stood up and walked past Bela, into the painfully familiar surroundings of her office. He sat at that ridiculously comfortable armchair across from her desk, imagining Castiel sitting there just moments before.

“Well, Dean,” Bela said, sitting in her own chair and crossing her hands in her lap, “Long time no see. How was your summer?”

“You mean aside from teeny-bopper rehab? Great.” The words were snarky, but Dean said them with a little smile and Bela offered a short laugh. She always had been able to understand Dean’s dark humor.

“I guess it was less than ideal, wasn’t it?” Bela asked rhetorically, casually flipping open a file on her desk. Dean assumed it was his. “I have here that you were released from Regional Hospital at the end of June.”

Dean nodded. Bela closed the file and put it back down on the desk.

“Have you been clean since then?”

Dean ducked his head, fidgeting again with the bracelets around his wrist. Bela waited patiently.

“I would take that as a ‘not exactly?’” She asked, her voice quiet. There was no judgment in her tone; only concern. Dean hated it.

“I did alright for a while,” Dean said, looking back up at her, “But, hanging out with some old friends… picked up some bad habits again.”

 “Which old friends are we talking about?”

“Uh, well, I ran into Walt and Roy at this July Fourth bash. That didn’t turn out so good. Then I started hanging around with Tessa and Meg again, and things just spiraled from there.”

“Are you still seeing them?”

“No.” Dean shook his head. “I mean, I was going down the same path and I didn’t really care, but then Sammy caught me on a bad night. That sort of snapped me out of it.”

“When was this?”

Dean thought for a moment. “A little over two weeks ago.”

“And you haven’t used since then?”

Dean shook his head again, and when Bela gave a small smile, he allowed himself to feel a bit of pride for it.

“That’s good to hear, Dean. What about Garth and Ash? Are you still seeing them?”

Dean stiffened a little, immediately defensive. “Yeah, but they’re harmless. Ash is a good guy; he actually likes me better sober. And Garth hardly even drinks.”

Bela thought this over for a minute and then nodded. “So… two weeks.” She said, pulling his file toward her again and opening it. She grabbed a pen and clicked it, and Dean sat up a little straighter. “What exactly were you using after getting out of rehab?”

Dean shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat a little before answering. “Uh, it started with weed. Just smoking every once in a while with friends. Then Meg offered to hook me up with some downers, so I started with those again.”

Bela didn’t look up, just scribbled furiously in the file. “Pheno?”

Dean hesitated. “Xanax, I think. Sometimes valium.”

“Any pain meds?”

“No.”

“How about prescription sleeping pills?”

Dean shook his head. Bela continued writing. He felt like a criminal being interrogated, but his father’s voice popped up in his head, reminding him that’s exactly what he was. There was that whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing, so it’s not like Bela would call the cops after Dean left her office. But Dean knew that what she was writing would follow him everywhere – other hospitals, other doctors, criminal background checks. His hands clenched into fists.

“What about alcohol?” Bela asked, pausing in her writing.

“Yeah, I drank pretty often.” Dean admitted. Given his track record, it was hardly a confession.

“How often?”

“Every weekend, at least. One or two weeknights.”

Dean fell quiet and Bela finished writing, before putting her pen down. She left the file open.

“So.” She said, propping her chin on her hand. “How’s sober life treating you?”

“Shitty.” Dean said. “I fucking hate it, to be honest.”

“What in particular do you hate about it?”

“Well, I can’t sleep. I’ve slept three hours in the past three days. I never could sleep, that’s why I started taking meds in the first place.”

Bela thought for a moment. “Have you ever tried meditation, or yoga?”

Dean gave a short laugh, running his hand through his hair. “You’re kidding, right?”

Bela just looked at him.

“Look, I don’t meditate. I’m not a hippie.” Dean said.

“You might find it helpful.”

“I seriously doubt it.”

“Okay,” Bela said, trying to compromise, “Maybe meditation is stretching it a little. But there has to be something that calms you.”

Dean was quiet, thinking this over. Nothing seemed to relax him anymore. Sure, there were a few small things that made him feel just a little bit more stable on his own two feet – music, Sam, his bike – but it was a damn far cry from calm.

Bela watched him patiently, smiling a little when Dean came up with nothing.

“Alright, then.” She said. “I see I have homework for you, too. Next week, I want you to come in here with a list of at least five things that you think could help calm you; that help you feel at peace. Does that sound fair?”

“Five?” Dean asked, a little incredulous.

“Five.”

Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, before giving a reluctant nod. If worse came to worse, he could just make something up.

 

It was almost dark by the time Dean got home. He hadn’t felt like going there straight after therapy, so he’d taken his bike out onto some stretches of open highway, enjoying the last month of dry pavement before the snow hit. Now the sun was almost gone, the last rays of orange light hitting the chipped paint on the house’s siding.

Dean took off his helmet and tucked it beneath his arm. When he cut the engine, the relative silence of the neighborhood settled around him, and he took a moment to listen. That’s when the sound of muffled shouts reached his ears.

Dean frowned, swinging his leg over his bike and starting up the walk. He knew those shouts were coming from his house. No other family on their block was this loud.

Muscles tense, Dean pulled open the front door. A cacophony of noise greeted him, but he couldn’t make out any words: all he heard was his dad’s voice and Sam’s rising to the ceiling. The living room was empty but he spotted Bones curled beneath the coffee table, his ears flat and his tail between his legs. When Dean slammed the door closed, the voices fell quiet.

Dean walked into the kitchen, where Sam and John were at opposite ends of the room. John was standing with one hand out and resting on the refrigerator, and Dean guessed he was using it for balance. His dad’s eyes were foggy and he swayed a little. Sam stood across from him, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“What’s going on?” Dean asked, looking between the two of them.

“What’s going on?” Sam looked at Dean, his face reddening with anger. “The man’s loaded again, that’s what going on.”

“Hey, watch your tone-” John started, but Sam cut him off.

“You’ve been home what, thirty-six hours? This has gotta be a new record, Dad.”

Dean stepped toward Sam, placing a hand on his brother’s chest. Even though Sam was younger, he was a full four inches taller than Dean.

“Take it easy, Sam.” Dean said. 

“No, Dean, this is getting ridiculous.” Sam’s voice was rising again, and he pointed at John. “He called the school and had me pulled out of practice so that I could drive him to the goddam _liquor store_!”

John rolled his eyes, taking an unsteady step toward the boys. “What, so you missed one practice. You’ll survive.”

“Yeah, well, Jess driving me home and seeing your stinking drunk ass on the front lawn isn’t exactly my idea of a good time.”

“You’re too good for this house now, is that what you’re saying?” John demanded.

Dean’s heart was pounding, but he stood steadily between Sam and John. Sam was pushing against his hand, and Dean knew if he let him go his brother and his dad were bound to go at it. This was how it worked at their house. Dean was the one who talked back and got into trouble, but he otherwise let his dad be. Sam, on the other hand, was the kid who followed the rules while taking every chance he got to stand up to his father.

“Maybe I am.” Sam snarled, voice low. “She sure as hell is.”

“You boys are so ungrateful.” John took a step closer, and Dean turned so his back was to Sam. He held his hands out, and he wasn’t sure if it was to try and calm John or to brace for a blow. “I work my ass off for weeks at a time, and this is what I come home to?”

“Dad-” Dean tried, but Sam pushed against him.

“Maybe you should try just not coming home, then.” Sam said, and John’s face whitened in anger. Dean’s muscles locked into place a split second before John’s hands roughly shoved him aside, and his ribs hit the edge of the kitchen counter hard. John grabbed Sam by the shirt collar, shaking him a little.

“And what would you do if I didn’t, huh?” He growled. He pushed Sam away from him, and Sam lost his footing, stumbling back into the china cabinet that held no china at all. There was the sound of shattering as Sam collided with the glass doors.

Slowly, Sam crumpled to the floor, but Dean didn’t dare go to him yet.

“That’s what I thought.” John said, throwing Dean a glare before walking out of the kitchen. Dean stood frozen to the spot, breathing hard. Sam looked up at him. His brown eyes were still sparked with anger.

When he heard the front door open and close, Dean walked over and pulled Sam to his feet.

“You alright?” He asked, looking down at the shattered glass around them.

“I think so.” Sam’s voice was subdued. “Cut my elbow all to hell, but that’s about it.”

Dean took Sam’s arm, rotating it gently in his hand. His elbow was a mess of glass and blood; there was a thick, dark stream of it trickling down to his wrist.

“Jesus.” He muttered, and Sam pulled away.

“It’s fine.”

“Sam, you might need stitches.”

“I’ll manage.” Sam muttered, holding his arm aloft. “What about you? He shoved you pretty hard.”

“It was nothing, I’m fine.” Dean said impatiently. His ribs were aching, but it was nothing compared to what he was used to. “You just go get a bandage or something. I’ll clean up the glass. Don’t want Bones stepping on it or anything.”

Sam looked at Dean a moment before nodding, then disappearing into the hall.

As Dean found a broom and swept up the glass, a hard knot worked itself into his stomach. Guilt hung heavy on him. He’d put himself between John and Sam, yet he’d let himself be pushed aside – why couldn’t he have held his ground, why wasn’t he stronger? Now Sam was hurt, and things were broken, and John was on a raging tear. It was his fault. It was his fault because he hadn’t been home, and because he hadn’t been able to say the right thing to calm John down or to make Sam back off. Why could he never think of the words?

_Stupid_. Dean dumped the glass into the garbage and tied the bag. He had years of experience of picking up things that John Winchester broke, but why did Dean always feel like he was cleaning up his own mess?

 

 


	5. A Ride Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy you guys liked the last chapter :) This one was a little easier to get through. I feel like things between Dean and Cas are slow moving right now, but things pick up soon, I promise!

Though school had started again, there was still the lingering taste of summer. Castiel could feel it everywhere at school on Friday. The temperature was in the mid eighties and every classroom window was open, the warm breeze lifting sheets of paper and ruffling curtains. No one felt like paying attention, and none of the teachers felt like teaching, so the hours were written off for idle study time or in-class videos that no one watched.

It was the Friday before Labour Day weekend, and as far as anyone else was concerned, life was good. Cas wished he could feel the same way but to him the day was empty. Homework was piling up, he was still royally screwed for his chem exam, and Dean Winchester wasn’t in school at all.

All in all, it wasn’t a good day. It ended on a particularly sour note when, in a fit of frustration, Castiel crumpled up three new sketches and chucked them into the garbage bin beside Anna.

“Cas, what the hell?” She frowned at him, leaning over and picking one of the crumpled balls out of the trash. Cas didn’t answer, just threw a few sticks of graphite back into his pencil case and zipped it up. Anna smoothed out the paper, revealing a half-finished drawing of a ballerina in mid-flight.

“This is good,” She said, holding it up to Cas. “Why’d you throw it out?”

Cas shrugged. “I wasn’t feeling it.”

Anna pursed her lips, watching Cas pack up his things. Then she turned and threw the drawing back in the trash with a resigned sigh. She walked over to him, leaning her elbows on the table.

“Cas,” She said, “You are _way_ too wound up. It’s only the first week of class and you’re already wigging out.”

“Anna,” Cas glanced up at her, “I don’t think anybody says ‘wigging out’ anymore.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Just… come out with me and Charlie tonight.”

“No.” Cas shook his head, not even thinking about it.

“Please? There’s this party at Jessica Moore’s place; it won’t be anything too crazy.”

Cas shot her a glance that said he doubted it.

“Tell you what,” Anna switched tactics, “You can drive, so we can leave whenever you want.”

Cas started to say something, but Anna interrupted. “After at _least_ an hour.”

Cas closed his mouth, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Come on, Cas.” She said, her voice quiet and sincere now. “I’m not going to let you spend all long weekend locked up in your house by yourself.”

Cas sighed, watching Anna’s puppy-dog expression, and he recognized defeat. “Alright, fine.”

               

When Dean woke up, it was with the disconcerting sensation of knowing he had slept too long. Groggily, he peeled open his eyes and reached around for his cell phone.

He pressed the home button and the time blinked in front of him: 2:36.

_Shit_ , he thought, _so_ _much for school._

Dean could hardly bring himself to care too much. Given the previous night’s shitty events, school just didn’t seem all that important.

After Sam had gotten cleaned up, he’d retreated to Jessica’s for the night. John hadn’t even noticed his son was gone. Dean found the old man passed out in the backseat of the Impala, his arms thrown over his eyes, and Dean knew he was dead to the world until morning. But he had taken the keys from John’s jacket pocket just in case.

Dean himself was awake until around three. He tried reading, then playing some guitar, and then he took Bones for a late night walk around the neighborhood. Nothing helped. His ribs ached and his heart hurt and his mind kept replaying the image of glass showering over Sam.

Finally, in an act of desperation, Dean began rummaging through the medicine cabinet for anything that might help. All he found was Pepto-Bismol, some ant-acids and a bottle of Tylenol PM that was completely empty.

Though there was a distinct foreboding in his gut, Dean went back to his room and fished out an Altoids tin from the back of his dresser. Inside were a few old rolling papers, a pack of matches and a single rusty-coloured pill. Dean picked it up, heart pounding, and inspected the tiny engraved letters: AMB.

Ambien. Meg had given him it, a freebie, after he’d gotten out of the hospital. And Dean hadn’t wanted to use it, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw it out, either. So he’d tucked it away with an “in-case-of-emergency” mentality. This was sort of an emergency, he reasoned, and he would only take it this once – it’s not like he would buy more. So he threw the pill back, dry swallowing, then crawled into bed.

He was asleep within half an hour.

Now, Dean pushed himself up, feeling all the different aches and pains in his muscles. He had slept in a skewed position and had been too knocked out to move through the night. His neck was stiff and his back felt worse; never mind his ribs. Groaning slightly, he crawled out of bed and ventured into the hall.

Bones greeted him, his golden tail swinging lowly. He whined sadly at Dean.

“What?” Dean asked, his voice rasping a little. “Didn’t anybody feed you? Guess not; Sammy isn’t here.”

As Dean walked to the kitchen, he noticed the house was quiet and the driveway was empty. John must be out. Feeling relief settle through him, he got Bones some food, before rummaging through their nearly bare cupboards and getting himself a bowl of cereal. Maybe it was almost three, but it was morning to him.

Dean only had the stomach for half of it. The guilt he had felt last night was doubled now. He’d told Bela he was clean for two weeks, even felt a little _proud_ of it, but in just one night he’d fucked it all up. He was back to square one; he had to start all over again. And he didn’t think he could do it.

Through the quiet of the house, Dean could hear his cell phone ringing in his bedroom. He abandoned his bowl of cereal and went to get it.

He half-smiled when he read the name on the phone, and slid his thumb across the screen to answer.

“Ash,” He said, “What’s up?”

“Ola, compadre!” Ash’s voice crackled through the phone, the sound of a CCR song playing in the background. “Didn’t call you in the middle of class, did I?”

Dean glanced around his empty room. “No, man, I didn’t really make it to school today.”

“Shit, me either.” Ash laughed, and Dean snickered. It was sort of a running joke in the entire school how Ash had been going to high school for seven years and didn’t know what grade he was in anymore.

“Check it out, man.” Ash continued, “Big long weekend kick-off tonight. Girls, music, beer. You gotta come out. You can drink Dr. Pepper all night if you want, but I need you there, man.”

“Where is it?” Dean asked, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He knew a party wasn’t exactly the brightest idea for him right now.

“Uh, let’s see, at that girl’s place. The cute little blonde who has your brother wrapped around her finger.”

“Jess?” Dean asked.

“That’s the one. What do you say?”

Dean paused, looking around his room for an excuse or maybe some motivation to say no. Then his eyes fell on the Altoids tin, still sitting out on his dresser.

“Yeah, all right. What time?”

 

Jessica Moore’s house was in one of those happy-medium sort of neighborhoods. The houses were small but they were nice; the lawns were well kept. There were enough teenagers living there that it wasn’t boring, yet the number of well off families made it safe.

 Still, Castiel’s stomach was tight with anxiety as he drove Anna and Charlie through the wide streets. Castiel didn’t go to parties. He didn’t do big crowds and lots of noise; that was Gabriel’s department. He had been planning on spending this Friday night in his room, looking through the anatomy books he’d gotten from the library and maybe catching up on Teen Wolf. Now here he was, driving through this strange neighborhood, getting farther and farther out of his comfort zone, and he hated it.

“Castiel.” Charlie said sadly, leaning forward and resting her chin on the driver’s seat, “Would you please wipe that tortured look off your face? You’re making me feel like we took you hostage.”

Cas looked at her in the rear view mirror. Unlike Anna’s sometimes-bossy demeanor, Charlie was always patient and sincere. Now, her eyebrows were furrowed over her green eyes and the corner of her mouth was turned down. Cas felt a pang of guilt.

“Sorry,” He said, and Anna looked over at him from the passenger side. “I don’t really know how else to look.”

“Try smiling.” Anna suggested, not unkindly. Cas hesitated, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. His own blue eyes were wide, almost fearful, and his mouth was set in a tight line. He knew if he tried smiling it would look all wrong.

“No.” He said, and Anna gave a small laugh. 

Suddenly, a house with dozens of cars parked outside came into view, and Charlie pointed at it. “It’s that one, right there.”

Cas pulled the Skyline up to the curb and parked it. The lawn outside of the house was littered with all kinds of kids: seniors, freshmen, jocks, punks, hipsters. Cas swallowed. He felt like he was going to throw up. The three of them climbed out of the car, and Charlie looped her arm through Cas’.

“Come on, it’ll be fine.” She smiled at him, and Anna eyed their arms, a slightly sour expression on her face as she followed them around the house and into the backyard.

Aside from a few token assholes – like Tyson Brady – Central High School wasn’t an overly cliquey place. Cas supposed he should be grateful for that. Though there were tons of kids packed into the backyard, everyone was getting along well. Cas hung on the fringe of it all, sticking close with Anna and Charlie as they hung out with the rest of the school’s art kids. He didn’t say much, but nobody noticed – it was sort of known that Castiel Novak didn’t talk a whole lot.

Sometime around midnight, Cas thought how he was getting tired and wouldn’t mind going home. They had been there for almost two hours, so he knew he could swing it – besides, Anna had had enough coolers that he was sure she would be easy to convince anyways.

The girls were standing by a bonfire near the back of the yard, and Cas started walking toward her, reaching for the keys in his pocket. That’s when a voice stopped him.

“Hey, Clarence.” It said, and Cas turned around. Walking out from the shadow of a tree was Meg Masters. She was a year older than Cas, and a fellow art freak, though she drew in a very different style. Cas distinctly remembered her Tim Burton-esque illustrations.

“Meg.” Cas said, giving a small smile. He never had been able to understand where she’d picked out her pet name for him from.

“Fancy seeing you here.” She said. “Didn’t think you were a party boy.”

“I’m not.” Cas admitted, nodding over to Anna and Charlie. “I’m sort of acting as DD.”

“Ah,” Meg raised an eyebrow. “That makes sense. How’ve you been?”

Cas shrugged. “Same old. What about you? I thought you were off at RISD.”

Meg shifted, a little uncomfortable. “Something came up and I had to push it back a year. So, figured I’d come on out and live vicariously through my younger counterparts.”

Meg looked over her shoulder to a group of kids behind her. They were standing on the other side of the fire, and most of them Cas didn’t recognize – there was a tall and scrawny guy with floppy brown hair, and a short girl with piercings. There was Ash, who was the school’s friendly stoner, and beside him was Dean Winchester.

Cas’ heart stalled. How had he not noticed him before?

Swallowing, he looked back at Meg, and she started asking him about school and his art. They talked for a little while, but Cas kept glancing over his shoulder at Dean. His younger brother had walked up to him, and they were arguing, Dean’s eyes fiery and his muscles tense. Sam had his arms crossed, not backing down, no matter how intimidating Dean looked.

For a split second Dean looked up, feeling Cas’ eyes on him. When he saw Cas talking to Meg, he frowned a little. Then he turned his attention to Sam again.

“Anyways,” Meg said, “I’m gunna go have a smoke. Blondie doesn’t want anyone smoking in her backyard, and hey, it’s her party, right?”

Meg pulled a pack out of her jacket pocket and offered Cas one. He shook his head.

“Suit yourself.” She stuck the smoke between her lips, and then gave Cas a slap on the shoulder as she walked past him. “See you ‘round, Clarence.”

Cas watched Meg walk away before looking over at Dean again. He and Sam were still arguing, and a few people around them had stopped to watch, wary looks on their faces. Cas could almost hear their voices through the din of the party, but not quite.

Suddenly, Dean stepped away from his brother and Cas noticed he was a little unsteady on his feet. He turned to leave and Sam yelled something after him. Dean continued for the front yard, and before he disappeared around the side of the house, he looked over at Cas. Then he was gone.

Cas stood, his jaw flexing. He looked over at Anna, who had been watching the fight quietly but was now looking at Cas with a knowing look in her eyes.

_Cas, no,_ it said. Cas looked to where Dean had disappeared, then back to Anna again.

_Give me one second_ , the look said, and before he knew it he was walking out into the front yard.

 

Music pulsed from the house and kids were littered around the front yard. Cas walked past them, keeping his eyes peeled for Dean, but he didn’t see him.

Cas reached the sidewalk, and he looked down the street. A few houses down there was a motorcycle leaning on its kickstand. A figure sat on the sidewalk beside it.

Swallowing, Cas approached Dean slowly. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing, or what he planned to say, but for whatever reason that didn’t stop him.

“Hey,” Cas said, stopping a few feet away from him. Dean looked up, and his green eyes widened a little in surprise when he saw Cas.

“Hey.” He said. Things were quiet for a second, and Cas shuffled his feet a little.

“I, uh…” Cas stuttered, gesturing behind him to the house. “I saw what happened. Just wanted to see if you were alright.”

_God, did he actually just say that?_ Dean was staring at him, a sort of confused look on his face. He was probably wondering why Cas cared. Cas was wondering that, too.

“Yeah, well,” Dean looked down at his hands, rubbing absently at an old scar, “It’s my fault, really. I knew this would be a bad idea.”

The words were a little slurred, and Dean pushed himself to a standing position. As he did, he stumbled backward, and Cas reached out and grabbed his arm.

“Thanks,” Dean said, righting himself. Cas let him go.

“No problem.” Cas frowned at him, a little disconcerted. Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys.

“Anyway,” He said, not meeting Cas’ eyes, “I’m gonna quit while I’m ahead.”

“You’re driving home?”

Dean looked up at Cas, his eyebrows raised. “No, not drive.” He stumbled forward a little and patted the seat of his bike. “ _Ride_. On my super bad-ass motorcycle.”

Cas frowned at him. “I don’t think you should driving.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Dean winked at him. _Winked_ at him, for chrissake. “I’m a professional.”

_Professional what?_ Cas thought, and he took a step toward Dean. “I can give you a ride home, if you want.”

“No, it’s alright.”

“Seriously.” Cas said, his blue eyes worried. Dean seemed focused enough, but he could barely walk two steps without swaying. There was no way he could keep a bike upright.

Dean let out a breath, looking at the keys in his hand. He rubbed the back of his neck, and when he looked up at Cas, all of the self-deprecating humor was gone from his face. He just nodded.

Cas and Dean walked over to the Skyline, and Cas sent Anna a quick text: _don’t worry, be back in 20._

 

As Dean sank into the passenger seat of Cas’ car, he thought to himself how nothing about this night had been what he planned. He hadn’t planned on drinking, hadn’t planned on buying an entire bottle of Ambien from Meg, and he sure as hell hadn’t planned on accepting a ride home from Castiel Novak.

At least on that last one, he could consider himself pleasantly surprised.

Fingers fumbling a little, Dean did up his seatbelt and looked around furtively. The interior of the car was as black as the outside, and there was an expensive looking stereo on the dash. He eyed the stick shift, silently surprised Cas could drive standard. Dean frowned at him as the boy did up his own seat belt and turned his keys in the ignition.

“What?” Cas asked, noticing Dean watching him.

“Are you sure this is your car?” Dean lifted an eyebrow.

Cas rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched up. “Actually, it’s Gabriel’s, technically.”

Gabriel. Dean had to think for a minute, before the image of a brown-haired kid with a sly grin came to mind. He’d completely forgotten he was Cas’ older brother.

“Right.” Dean said. Cas shifted the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. “Didn’t want a car of your own?”

Cas glanced over at him. “I’m not a big fan of driving.”

Dean frowned. “You’re kidding.”

“No.” Cas said with absolute sincerity. “The speed, the accidents, other drivers… it all sort of freaks me out.”

Dean thought this over. “Fair enough.”

They were quiet for a moment. The silence seemed natural for Cas, but Dean shifted uncomfortably. Maybe he was imagining it, but the air around them seemed heavy. He felt a little nervous, being in such close quarters with Castiel, and his answer to nerves was always to talk.

“So…” Dean said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I was sort of surprised to see you at Jess’. You don’t seem like the party type.”

“I’m not. Anna talked me into going.” Cas looked over at Dean, then fixed his eyes to the road again. “I didn’t really think I’d see you there, though.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you weren’t in school.”

“You noticed I wasn’t at school?”

Cas swallowed, his cheeks turning a soft pink when he realized he’d said too much. Dean’s heart quickened a little. Cas had noticed he was missing from school. And he kind of liked that. Still, the kid looked embarrassed about it.

“I saw you talking to Meg Masters.” He said, changing the subject. “I had no idea she knew you.”

“Just from school. We’d see each other around sometimes.”

Dean nodded. For some reason, seeing Meg with Castiel had made something cold drop into his stomach. He knew Meg, and people like her mingling with people like Castiel seemed like a very bad idea.

“You don’t talk to her much, do you?” Dean asked. Cas frowned at him.

“Not really. I actually thought she was away at college right now. Why?”

Dean shrugged, looking out the passenger window. “She’s a rough kid; sort of has a habit of getting people into trouble. So… just be careful around her, okay?”

Cas looked over at Dean, a questioning look on his face. Dean refused to meet his gaze.

“You’re worried about me hanging around with Meg?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“Why?” Cas didn’t ask it meanly; more like he was genuinely curious.

“I’m not sure.” Dean answered quietly, because it was the truth. When he looked up, Cas’ blue eyes were watching him. Then he looked out at the road again.

They were quiet for a little while, save for Dean pointing Castiel in the direction of his neighborhood. When they pulled up to the ramshackle Winchester house, Dean’s jaw clenched a little in shame. He knew it wasn’t much. Cas, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care. He just put the car into park and pulled the e-break, looking over at Dean.

Dean knew this was the part where he offered thanks, got out of the car, and disappeared into the house. Over. End of story. But he didn’t want to. The interior of the Skyline felt safe, somehow, and it smelled ridiculously good: like new car and just a hint of expensive aftershave.

Then there was Cas. What was it about this kid? Was he completely imagining the vibe between them? No, he couldn’t be, because it wasn’t just a vibe, it was a goddamn electric current. Being this close to Cas felt like reaching out to touch a livewire.

Dean gripped the door handle, mustering up his courage as he looked over at Cas. The lateness of the hour and the alcohol in him system didn’t make it all that hard.

“Listen,” He said, nerves turning in his stomach, “I was thinking. We’ve been going to the same school for like three years, and we don’t really know each other. So, do you think you’d want to… hang out sometime, maybe?”

_God, that was so lame._ Dean fought the urge to cringe and looked over at Cas. He was just sitting there, a sort of blank look on his face.

_This was a terrible idea. Way to go, dumbass, you’ve scared the hell out of him._ Dean was about to throw open the car door and run for his life into the house when Cas said,

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. That sounds great.” Cas gave Dean a timid smile, and Dean’s heart jumped.

“Okay. Cool.” He said, smiling back.

 


	6. Late At Night

Dean absolutely hated working hung over. It didn’t matter how many times it happened, he never quite got used to it. That Saturday was hot, which didn’t help, and the smell of gasoline at Bobby’s would be the death of him. He was rotating the tires of an old Trans Am, mouth firmly pressed shut as he tried not to think about his urge to throw up.

He didn’t care that, technically, he hadn’t had much to drink (five beer and half a mickey). He didn’t congratulate himself on the fact that he’d stuffed that bottle of Ambien in his top drawer and left it there unopened. He wasn’t even proud that he had managed to get a ride home with Cas ( _Cas_ , for crying out loud) instead of trying to ride his bike.

Dean chalked all of these things up to dumb luck. It didn’t change the fact that he had gotten drunk, then bought drugs from Meg, before flirting with Tessa even though he still hated her. And then he’d fought with Sam, in front of everybody, like the goddamn train wreck of a family they were.

Sam’s words were still in his head: _Jesus, Dean, first you don’t turn up at school and now you come here drunk? Garth says you’ve been drinking since five! I thought you said you were done, huh? I can’t trust you now. This is ridiculous, you know, you’re getting more and more like Dad every day…_

Dean took a breath and pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes, trying to release some of the pressure. Sam had every right to yell at him. His kid brother deserved better.

All in all, it seemed that Cas was the only good thing to come from last night. Had Dean really asked him to hang out? That had seemed normal, right? Friends asked friends to hang out…

Suddenly, Jo rounded the front of the Trans Am. Dean still wasn’t quite used to seeing her at Bobby’s all the time. Bobby and Ellen had been dating for years, but they’d only been living together for a few months.

“Hey, Jo.” Dean said, his voice scraping out his throat. He leaned against the workbench, wiping his hands on a dirty rag.

“You sound terrible.” Jo said flatly, crossing her arms and leaning beside him. “You look pretty terrible, too. Rough night?”

Dean shrugged, grabbing his water bottle and twisting off the cap. “Could have been worse, I guess.”

“Charlie said she saw you at Jess’.” Jo looked at him. “I thought you were taking a break from parties.”

“So did I.” Dean took a drink of water. His mouth still felt dry and terrible.

“So what happened?”

“I dunno, all kinds of crap. Dad blew up. I slept through school. Then Ash called me about the party, so I figured, fuck it.”

“’Fuck it.’ Great. Great mentality, Dean.”

Dean frowned at her. “Come on, Jo. Everybody else is mad at me, don’t be mad, too.”

“I’m not mad.” Jo said, “Just frustrated.”

“Same thing.” Dean put the water down and pushed away from the workbench.

“It is not.” Jo followed at his heels. “So, Charlie _also_ said that you got a ride home with Castiel Novak.”

Dean’s stomach jumped, but he kept his head down, focusing as he popped the hood of the Trans Am. “Maybe I did.”

Jo grinned at him.

“What?” Dean raised an eyebrow at her.      

“Nothing.” Jo widened her eyes innocently, but Dean didn’t buy it. “Fine. So maybe I noticed the way you’ve been looking at him lately. And I dunno, Cas is really sweet. I think he could be good for you.”

Dean shook his head, not saying anything for a minute. He leaned his hands against the side of the car. “I asked him to hang out. That seems cool, right? People ask people to hang out.”

“Sure they do.”

“And it’ll just be as friends.”

Jo tilted her head at him.

“Friends.” Dean repeated. “Jo, I have no idea if he even looks at me that way. He doesn’t seem like the type who likes other guys.”

“First of all,” Jo said, “Neither do you. Second of all, Cas so totally does.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “How?”

“I don’t know.” Jo shifted uncomfortably. “His sense of style is too nice for him to be straight.”

Dean scoffed. “There’s a stereotype for you.”

Jo threw her hands up in the air. “Sorry! So when are you hanging out?”

Dean let out an exasperated breath. Keeping up with Jo was difficult sometimes. “I don’t know. This only happened last night.”

“Touché. But when you do, you have to tell me everything.”

“I so do not.”

“Come on! My love life is deader than dead. I have to live through you.”

Dean threw his head back and groaned. “This isn’t a love life, Jo.”

“Not yet.” She grinned, ruffling his hair as she walked past him and out of the garage. Dean just watched her, feeling even more uneasy than he had been before.

 

 

Sometime late that Saturday night, it started raining. Hard. Castiel walked quickly to his bedroom window, pulling it shut and closing the latch. Raindrops lashed at the glass pane.

Sighing, he watched the storm for a moment before returning to his computer. He was sort of grateful for the rain. It made him feel better about marooning himself in his room.

Castiel knew that nearly everyone else his age was still out enjoying the long weekend, rain or not. But to him one party had been enough. Now, he settled comfortably in his chair and rested his hand on his computer mouse, navigating back to his tumblr dashboard. His iTunes was open and playing Yiruma and there was a sketchpad pad at his elbow.

He scrolled a bit through his tumblr, browsing through posts of Impressionists and photographers. He reblogged a few Degas paintings and a quote from Oscar Wilde. He gained one follower, giving him a new total of 3,187, which he still couldn’t quite believe. He deliberated over re-vamping his theme but decided against it.

He checked the time. It was 12:32. Cas sat back, looking around his quiet room. Despite the hour, he wasn’t tired. He had felt comforted just moments before, but now he felt… unsettled. Bored, even. Like something was missing.

For about the hundredth time, Cas’ mind thought back to the previous night. He still couldn’t quite believe he had given Dean a ride home – that _Dean Winchester_ had been sitting in the passenger seat of his car. He had thought Dean was being polite, accepting the offer of a ride, but then he’d asked Castiel if he wanted to hang out...

Cas still couldn’t get over that. Had he actually meant it, or was he just being nice? He hadn’t heard from Dean since then, but that wasn’t even twenty-four hours ago. That was too soon, right?

Cas drummed his fingers on his desk, biting his bottom lip. Before he could stop himself, he sat up straight and pulled his keyboard closer, opening a new Chrome tab and navigated to his barely-used Facebook account.

He still couldn’t believe he actually had one. The only reason Cas would ever use it was if Anna or Charlie wanted to get a hold of him. Anna didn’t have a cell phone and Charlie was always losing hers. In fact, it was Charlie who had made the account for him in the first place.

After they became friends, Charlie was absolutely disgusted with Cas’ lack of interest in social media. One day she had come to school and handed him a piece of paper.

“Here,” She said, “I signed you up for Twitter, Facebook and Tumblr. I followed blogs I thought you’d like, and I friended a bunch of people for your FB account. These are your passwords and usernames. You have a great responsibility now; don’t disappoint me, Novak. The internet is counting on you.”

Castiel quickly found he had virtually no use for Facebook or Twitter. Tumblr had been the only thing that stuck. Charlie had been proud, but the pride turned sour when Castiel’s little art blog surpassed hers in follower count.

Now, Castiel found himself looking through the news feed of his Facebook. It was filled with Instagram pictures of various alcoholic beverages and statuses complaining about the rain. He didn’t see the name of anyone he really recognized.

Shaking a little, he clicked on the search box and started to type, “Dea-“

_Dean Winchester_ showed up as a suggestion. The tiny profile picture showed Dean, a mega-watt smile on his face and his arm around his younger brother. Heart pounding, Cas clicked on it.

_People can’t see that you looked at their profile pages, right? That’s just a myth…_

According to Dean’s profile page, he was about as inactive on Facebook as Cas was. His last account activity was from January: _Dean Winchester was with Jo Harvelle at The Roadhouse._

Eyes scanning the page, Cas saw that Dean’s profile was topped with a check marked “Friends” button.

Suddenly, a message box appeared at the bottom of the screen with a small _ping!_ Cas jumped.

The tiny profile picture of Anna Milton, complete in Ginny Weasley cosplay, was staring out at him.

_What’s this? Castiel Novak willingly on FB messenger?_ The message read. Cas gritted his teeth and typed.  

_Stranger things have happened._

_Not in my experience._

Cas shook his head and then typed, _how were you feeling this morning?_

_Like death. Remind me never to drink vodka coolers again; I’m sticking to beer from now on._

_That’s what you said last time._

_Whatever. I’m just glad I didn’t hurl in you car._

Cas laughed a little. _Me too._

_So, are you gunna spill, now that I’m coherent and sober?_

Cas frowned. _Spill about what?_

_About you taking Bad-Boy Winchester for a ride in your hot car ;)_

Cas’ face grew hot. _Do not winky face at me. He was drunk and needed a ride home._

_Whatever you say, pumpkin._

_That is what I say._

_Cas, you’ve had a crush on him since you moved here._

_And?_

_And… so there has to be more to it! Did you make a move?_

_ANNA I SWEAR TO GOD_

_Well did you?_

_NO. Why would I make a move? He probably doesn’t even like guys._

_Well… can’t you tell if he does or not?_

_No, why would I?_

_Don’t you guys have, like, radar for that?_

_It’s called gaydar. And no we don’t._

_Are you sure?_

_If we did, then Charlie would have had your number from day one._ Cas smiled smugly as he pressed “enter”.

_Huh. Good point._

Suddenly, there was another ping, and a second window popped up next to Anna’s. The smile slipped from Castiel’s face. A miniature version of Dean’s profile picture sat at the top of the window.

_Hey._

Cas just stared at the word. Hey. Oh God, what did he say back? His fingers hovered over the keys…

_Hey_. Cas cringed. He waited.

_Gotta say, I didn’t think I’d be seeing you on Facebook at midnight._

Cas chewed the inside of his cheek. _Me either. Just couldn’t sleep._

_Yeah, I know the feeling._

Cas’ heart warmed a little. Out of the corner of his eye, another message appeared from Anna, but he didn’t look at it. He typed quickly.

_Yeah? Got any better ideas than Facebook?_

Cas bit his lip. Had that been too much? The little ellipses icon appeared as Dean typed.

_Actually, I know a place._

The last time Dean had hung out with someone in the middle of the night, sober, it had been the time he and Tessa went to see a late showing of Frozen. That seemed like ages ago now.

Rapid City was a small and quiet town to begin with. It was even quieter past one o’clock in the morning. The streets were empty as rain drizzled on the pavement; the streetlights were reflected in the puddles. Cas and Dean ducked their heads against the downfall, walking up to the front of a small, brightly lit coffee shop. Dean held the door for Cas and then followed him inside.

Dean hadn’t taken anybody to this place before – not even Jo. Grind wasn’t all that well known by high school kids; it was typically frequented by twenty-something stoners and hipsters. But it was one of the only places in town that was open twenty-four hours, and Dean liked that he could go there without running into anyone, no matter what hour it was.

The inside of Grind was decorated in typical South Dakota fare: big windows, hardwood floor, and wooden tables and chairs. There were vintage signs on the walls advertising hiking tours and raft boat rentals. Despite the late hour, it was almost packed. Kids in flannel and band t-shirts were draped across the chairs, some sitting solitarily with computers, others talking loudly with friends. Dean looked around and spotted an empty table, tucked away in a corner by the window. He nodded toward it.

“Better grab it before someone else does.” He said to Cas. “I can get you something. Coffee?”

Cas nodded. “Decaf.”

Dean leaned against the counter and ordered two coffees, looking over his shoulder nervously at Cas. He was wearing this grey long sleeved sweater and his dark hair was a little messed, like he’d been running his hands through it. A sort of ache smarted in Dean’s gut and he looked away, wondering if this had really been the best idea.

He pushed the thought away.

Dean sat down at the table, placing a steaming cup of coffee in front of Cas. The boy reached out and wrapped his hands around it, before sneaking a shy glance up at Dean.

“Thanks.” He said. Dean gave a smile back that was equally as timid.

“Don’t mention it.”

Cas turned the cup a little in his hands, looking around at the coffee shop. Dean just watched him. He’d never been given this kind of opportunity to actually _look_ at Cas – to notice just how blue his eyes were or how his dark eyebrows shifted. Dean’s stomach felt unsettled but he couldn’t quite look away.

“I like this place.” Cas said decidedly, eyes finding Dean’s again. Dean felt his face grow warm and he looked down at his hands. “I didn’t even know it existed.”

“Not many people do.” Dean admitted. “But I like it, too. I usually come here on my own, though.”

Cas narrowed his eyes a little at Dean. “You know, I wasn’t sure if you were serious when you asked if I wanted to hang out.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Cas shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” Dean said quietly, picking at a chip on his coffee cup, “I was serious.”

Cas was quiet for a minute as he watched Dean. Then he asked, “So, do you go out for coffee at one o’clock in the morning very often?”

“Not that often.” Dean said. “Once or twice a week, maybe.”

Cas raised his eyebrows. “I would consider that often.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth quirked up. “I don’t know; I just have issues with sleep.”

“Like insomnia?”

Dean nodded. “I don’t always come here. Sometimes I’ll ride my bike for a while or walk the dog or play music. Gotta switch it up; keeps things from getting too boring.”

“It must be frustrating.” Cas said, frowning just slightly at him, “Not being able to sleep.”

Dean shrugged, brushing it off. “I’m used to it by now.”

“Meaning?”

Dean looked at Cas for a moment, deliberating. He usually didn’t talk about this sort of thing with people, but something about the kid’s intense blue eyes was shaking the truth out of him. “I’ve never really been able to sleep. When I was a kid, I started having these pretty intense nightmares. Things just got worse from there.”

“Nightmares about what?” Cas asked curiously. Dean smiled a little in an I-know-this-sounds-lame kind of way.

“Ghosts, mostly. Sometimes weird shit like demons and werewolves and vampires. I used to watch a lot scary movies as a kid, and I had a pretty vivid imagination, so that didn’t help.”

Cas smiled too, but it wasn’t in a judgmental way. More like he was sympathizing. “Gabriel made me watch _The Hills Have Eyes_ once. I didn’t sleep for a week.”

Dean gave a short laugh. Throughout this little exchange, the two boys had subconsciously leaned toward each other. Cas was staring intently at Dean, his blue eyes unwavering. Dean usually faltered when people looked at him too much, but he found he was reacting to it differently with Castiel.

“Gabriel, Castiel…” Dean said, tilting his head a little at Cas. “Those are pretty unique names. Do they mean anything?”

“They’re angel names.” Cas said, and it was his turn to look uncomfortable again. He looked down at his coffee. “Gabriel is the archangel, and Castiel is the angel of Thursday. Bartholomew isn’t an angel, but he was a disciple. My father’s very religious.”

“I didn’t know you had another brother.” Dean said, suddenly realizing just how much there was about Cas he didn’t know.

“He’s the oldest.” Cas supplied. “He actually just got his doctorate; he’s working at Regional Hospital now.”

“Impressive.” Dean said, raising his eyebrows. Cas didn’t look proud, though; if anything, there was a bit of bitterness in his eyes.

“Is that what you want to do?” Dean asked. “The whole doctor thing?”

Cas’ eyes widened in fear. “Me? Hell no. I’d be a terrible doctor. All my sciences are my worst subjects.”

“Really? Cause you definitely put off a straight-A vibe.”

Cas rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, you’d be surprised, I guess.”

“What do you want to do, then?” Dean was afraid he sounded nosy, but he couldn’t help himself. He suddenly wanted to know everything about Cas.

Cas looked up at Dean through his eyelashes, his jaw tensing. Dean knew, then, that this was a sensitive subject. He was about to tell Cas to drop it, when the boy said, voice quiet,

“Art. I’d like to be an artist, ideally.”

Dean blinked in surprise. “Dude, that sounds way cooler than being a doctor. What kind of artist?”

Cas blushed a little, a smile creeping back onto his face. Dean’s heart jumped. There was something very rewarding about being the reason Cas smiled.

“I like to draw figures.” Cas said. “Usually in charcoal or graphite. I like Impressionism and the Renaissance; nothing too edgy.”

Dean had no idea what that really meant, but he nodded anyways. “Guess I should have figured you were an art kid. I always see you in the studio.”

Now, Cas looked up sharply, a strange look on his face. Dean frowned a little.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Cas dropped his eyes. “I just didn’t think you really knew I existed.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because,” Cas let out a resigned breath, “I sort of just blend in; nobody really notices me. But you’re Dean Winchester. Everybody knows who you are.”

“That’s not always a good thing.” Dean said. “My reputation isn’t exactly stellar.”

“Is all of it true, then?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What parts, exactly?”

Cas bit his lip, thinking for a minute. Dean waited with a foreboding feeling in his stomach. No matter how bad some of the rumors Cas had heard about him were, Dean would probably have to confirm that most of them were true.

“Have you ever been arrested?”

Dean’s jaw flexed. “A few times.”

“For what?”

“Um, let’s see… public intoxication. Possession. Breaking and entering. I think that’s about it.”

Cas didn’t even blink. “Do you really sell drugs out of the school cafeteria?”

Now, Dean had to laugh. “What? No.”

“Is your motorcycle stolen?”

“Nope. Sixteenth birthday present.” 

“Are you affiliated with any gangs?”

“I’m not _that_ stupid.”

“Do you have a tattoo of a grim reaper on your back?”

“Definitely not.” Dean didn’t add that he was terribly afraid of needles.

“Do you own any handguns?”

“I’m an army brat; we have a gun locker in my living room. Comes with the lifestyle.”

“Did you really get into a knife fight at that bush party by the river?”

“Maybe. But the guy was asking for it.”

Cas fell quiet, pursing his lips as he stared intently at Dean. Dean had his arms crossed on the table, meeting Cas’ gaze with equal concentration. He noticed Cas hadn’t asked him if he was a drug addict. Maybe it was because Cas already knew it was the truth.

“Lived up to my reputation, then?” Dean gave a humorless smile. Cas tilted his head at him.

“I don’t really know yet.”

“Cas…” Dean looked down, running his hands across the wood grain of the table. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea. I might not be as much of a lost cause as Meg Masters, but I’m still not the best influence on people. You’re probably better off without me as a friend.”

Cas thought for a moment, not taking his eyes from Dean. “I doubt it. Besides… maybe I want to decide that for myself.”

Dean looked up at Cas. His heart had started to beat a little faster, and he wondered what they looked like to the rest of the people in the coffee shop. Two boys, leaning across the table toward each other intently, voices hushed with serious conversation…

“Can I ask you something now?” Dean asked. Cas looked apprehensive, but he said,

“Sure.”

“Why were you _really_ at Bela’s office on Thursday?”

Cas swallowed, but he didn’t drop his gaze. His face had paled a little, and if Cas’ art had been a sensitive topic before, Dean suspected that this one was completely off-limits. He almost regretted even asking.

“Maybe I’ll tell you sometime.” Cas said, and Dean relaxed. It wasn’t an answer, but he suddenly knew that from Cas, it was still a lot.

                 


	7. Feel Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy man! I'm so happy people are liking this, cause I'm really enjoying writing it :) 
> 
> Okay so two songs came into mind for this chapter, in case anyone likes music along with their stories:   
> Feel Real by Deptford Goth and  
> Angels by The xx
> 
> Also, TW for some mentions of Self Harm at the beginning of this chapter.

Everything at the Novak house was unbearably quiet. When Castiel started the Espresso machine in the kitchen, it sounded incredibly loud and it echoed off the vaulted ceiling. He almost jumped at the commotion of it.

Bartholomew was working a double at the hospital. The cleaning lady had the weekend off (she wasn’t all that talkative, but Cas always appreciated the company). Even though Gabriel had promised they’d talk often, Cas had yet to receive so much as an email from his brother. Cas liked his solitude, but there was a thin line between solitude and isolation. Now, he felt like he was crossing that line.

Jaw flexing, Cas took the cup of strong coffee up to his room. He’d fallen asleep some time around three – not long after he’d gotten back from his random midnight meet-up with Dean. He’d lied awake for a while, going over everything that had been said in minute detail and working himself into an anxious mess. He’d woken up from restless dreams a little after nine.

Now, as much as Cas wanted to obsess over Dean, he knew he had bigger fish to fry. His chem exam was first thing on Tuesday and he still didn’t have any notes. He sat himself down at his desk, coffee cup in hand, and tried to re-make the notes from memory.

It didn’t go well. Though there had been about ten pages of notes, Cas was only able to conjure up enough information to take up half a page. This, combined with his rather shitty sleep, had his nerves twisted into an anxious knot.

He pushed away the notebook in frustration and turned to a half-finished drawing. It was a portrait of the back of a girl, her long brunette hair reaching down a bare back. He’d drawn angel wings sprouting from her shoulders, and had been toying with the idea of cutting the tips of the wings from the paper, just to see how it would turn out. He grabbed a tiny, slanted Exact-O knife from a jar of brushes and pencils and began slowly cutting away at the graphite lines.

As Castiel focused his energy on this, his mind slowly fixated on his chemistry notes. He was positive he wasn’t going to be able to re-produce them in time… might as well right off the first exam as a lost cause. And really, he was okay with that.   

But Bartholomew… Bartholomew wouldn’t be. It would seem like Castiel wasn’t making any effort to get back on his feet. He’d probably insist Castiel go back on that medication again to help him focus, even though Castiel hated it. But really, nothing else Castiel had tried was working. Meditation was a bust, he could barely stand to go to church anymore, and there was only so much St. John’s Wort a person could take.

Cas sighed in frustration. Everyone in the Novak family was brilliant. Dad was a world-renowned surgeon, Bartholomew graduated magna cum laude; even Gabriel brought a certain sort of intelligence to the elaborate shenanigans he got into. At least he owned his craft. Cas, on the other hand, was struggling just to make it through high school. Everything he attempted came out wrong.

Gritting his teeth, Castiel watched the blade of the Exact-O knife cut through the paper. The sound of it, the gentle tearing, was comforting. He thought of how cool the blade would feel against his skin; how the pain would be a strange confirmation that he was alive. Besides, he kind of deserved it, didn’t he?

No. He wasn’t going to do that; he couldn’t. Still, he stopped picking away at the paper and rested the blade against the inside of his left forearm, just letting it sit there. At the touch of smooth metal, Cas closed his eyes and sighed…

He wasn’t sure why he had started doing it. In his ninth grade art class, he’d been having a particularly bad day. And for someone like Castiel, who had been diagnosed with an Anxiety disorder at the age of seven, bad meant _bad_. He was shaking horribly, trying to properly handle the class’ large paper cutter, when he accidentally brought it down on top of his hand.

Cas remembered how bright the blood was. He remembered how the cool air had felt on the open cut; how the pain had made adrenaline shoot through his system. And then the frantic art teacher had sent him to the nurse’s office, and Castiel didn’t bother trying to explain that actually, he was just fine, now.

That was how it started. But why? Cas could never quite put his finger on why.

There were a few reasons: it grounded him. It reassured him his surroundings were real – this was especially handy during those nasty panic attacks when he felt like nothing was real. And sometimes, when he failed or fucked things up, it helped because he just felt like he deserved it.

It had been two months since he last cut. Two months of being “clean”. Now, only a week into school, and here he was with a blade resting against his skin all over again.

How was he going to be able to survive this year?

   

 

    “Listen, kid,” Ellen walked into the garage, brunette hair pulled back and a handful of rusty gears in her hand, “I was talking to Bobby, and I want you outta here by noon today. And don’t come in tomorrow. It’s the long weekend; go and have some fun.”

    Dean was stooped under the hood of an old Chevy. He looked over his shoulder at her. “Thanks, Ellen. But I don’t mind coming in. Keeps me out of trouble.”

    Ellen scoffed. “Boy, a whole damn fleet of angels couldn’t keep a Winchester out of trouble.”

    Dean gave a little laugh, but though he knew Ellen was only joking, something uneasy had settled in his stomach.

    “Hey,” he said, straightening up and leaning against the car, “You haven’t seen my dad around, have you? He peaced out on Friday and I haven’t really seen him since.”

    For some families, this would have been alarming. But for the Winchesters, it was hardly worth mentioning. Ellen was rummaging through an old rusted toolbox, and she glanced up at Dean.

    “Rufus saw him at Pam’s last night. He was with Martin and some other guys.”

    Dean nodded. Pam’s was a bar near the edge of town, but it was one of John’s tamer hangouts. It was clean and Pam, the woman who owned the place, didn’t tolerate bullshit from anyone – especially John. Martin himself was a low-key guy. All in all, not the worst way John could be blowing off steam.

    Ellen was watching Dean. “Everything all right at home?”

    Dean’s muscles tensed and he looked away. Ellen knew things between the boys and their dad could get intense, but she tried not to stick her nose into other people’s business. Still, she always gave Dean the opportunity to speak up.

    “Nothing out of the ordinary.” Dean’s voice was only a little bitter.

    “Well, like I said – take tomorrow off. You’ve been looking a little worse for wear lately, Dean. I think you need some time to relax.”

    Dean smirked and ducked back beneath the hood. “Right. Honestly, I don’t think I really know how anymore.”

    Ellen leaned against the car, twirling a wrench around in her hand. “Listen… Sam stopped by yesterday. Now, I know it’s not exactly my business, but I care about you boys. And he seems pretty worried about you.”

    Dean stood up again, tossing a dirty rag on top of the car’s engine. He really wasn’t in the mood to have this sort of talk, but he knew better than to brush Ellen off. Ellen Harvelle didn’t warm up to just anyone. Her hazel eyes were narrowed as she watched him.

    “Are you still clean, Dean?”

    Dean’s jaw tensed, and he couldn’t meet her gaze. He didn’t want to say it out loud, but he knew Ellen was going to make him.

    “I tried.” He said, voice barely audible.

    “Well, try harder.” Ellen said, voice firm. “You’re a good kid, and I’ll be damned if I sit by and see that go to waste. So you make up with your brother and you set things right.”

    Now Dean did look up at her, and he nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

    “Alright.” Ellen relaxed, but only a little. “You know Bobby and I are here for you, if you boys need anything.”

    “I know. Thanks. Just… don’t tell Jo, okay?”

    Ellen pursed her lips, but she nodded. “Alright. But Lord help you if she sees right through you anyways.”

    Dean gave a short laugh, and Ellen pushed away from the car, lightly patting Dean’s cheek as she passed him.

    Dean worked for a few more hours, but just past noon, Bobby came out and told him to go home. Though he didn’t really want to, he had nowhere else he needed to go, so he ended up crashing on the living room couch for a few hours. He hadn’t been able to sleep after that coffee with Castiel, and it was sort of nice to finally succumb to the exhaustion.

    Not long after falling asleep, Dean drifted into a strange dream. It started at the ball diamonds at the high school. It was nighttime and the place was deserted; he was meeting Meg there to buy more drugs.

    Suddenly, Meg appeared out near the pitcher’s mound. Dean walked out to her and tried to give her money for a bottle of pills, but she insisted that money wasn’t going to be enough this time. She said Dean’s money was useless; he owed her more than that. That’s when he noticed Meg’s face had changed. It was decaying, and there were dark, empty sockets where her eyes had been. Even though Dean could still hear her voice, Meg had no mouth at all.

    Dean turned to run, but as he did, he almost ran into Sam. His younger brother was standing beside a gaping hole in the ground. There was a shovel in his hand. Sam’s face only looked slightly apologetic as he explained it was better this way, and Dean barely had time to ask _what_ was better, before Sam pushed him roughly and Dean fell into the hole.

    This was the part where Dean tried to cry out, but he found he had no voice. He lashed out with his arms and legs, but his sense of coordination and balance was skewed; almost like he was extremely drunk. He was left to struggle silently, watching as Sam picked up the shovel again and threw pile after pile of dirt on top of Dean, burying him alive.

    Dean woke up with a jerk and a sharp intake of breath. His eyes snapped open to the brightly lit living room – an alarming contrast to the dream he’d just woken up from. Late summer air poured in through the open window. Bones was lying on the couch at his feet.

    Shaking, Dean took a moment to calm down. _It was just a dream. You’re not being buried alive, Meg isn’t a monster, and Sam isn’t going to kill you._ It only took a few seconds before his breathing slowed – waking up from nightmares was always easier when it was light out.

    For a while, Dean just lied there on the couch, focusing on the reassuring pressure of Bones curled up against his legs. That dream had been particularly jarring. If Sam was ever a part of Dean’s nightmares, it was usually because he was the one dying. He’d never been the threat before.

    Dean thought back to what Ellen had said. Usually, Sam kept the family’s problems behind closed doors. It didn’t seem like him to talk about it to Ellen or Bobby; things must really be getting to him.

    Maybe Ellen was right. Maybe Dean had to try harder.

    Slowly, Dean disentangled his legs from Bones and pushed himself up to a sitting position. He grabbed his phone from the coffee table and scrolled through his contacts, his thumb hovering over the word “Sammy”, before he changed his mind and opened a text message to Jess.

_Hey. Haven’t seen my brother around, have you?_

    He put the phone down and waited, reaching out to scratch Bones’ ears. Dean never had been a fan of dogs, but he had to admit the Golden Retriever had grown on him.

    His phone buzzed. _Yeah, he’s with me. We’re heading out to Canyon Lake in a bit. Why?_

    Dean bit his lip. _Just checking in. Hadn’t seen him in a while._

    Jess would see through that. If Dean had simply he wanted to know his brother wasn’t dead in a ditch, he would have just texted Sam. But Jess, knowing by now how the brothers operated, didn’t push the subject.

_Okay. I’ll return him safe and sound, I promise_ _J_

    Sighing, Dean put the phone back down and ran his hands through his hair. He hadn’t talked to or seen Sam since the party at Jess’. Suddenly – maybe it was because of Ellen, or the nightmare – Dean just wanted to see his brother and apologize. He knew it could wait until tomorrow, but there was something restless in his bones telling him to stop putting stuff like this off.

    Dean checked the time. Five o’clock. He decided he would shower, get Bones and himself something to eat, and then he’d drive out to Canyon Lake and apologize to Sam. It couldn’t hurt to show Sam he would put in that amount of effort. Besides, as Dean glanced out the front window, he thought how it looked like a nice evening for a ride.

 

    In late afternoon, there was a resounding knock at the front door. Castiel frowned. Who the hell would be knocking at his door on a Sunday?

    Emerging from his room, Cas made his way to the front door and peered through the peephole (he refused to activate the front door security camera on principle). Standing on the front steps were Anna and Charlie.

    Groaning inwardly, Cas unlocked the door and swung it open.

    “You’re alive!” Charlie exclaimed, her face splitting into a grin. “How come you weren’t answering your texts?”

    “Hi to you too, Charlie.” Cas said. “My phone died. Guess I forgot to recharge it.”

    Anna rolled her eyes. “You’re such a hermit.”

    Cas frowned at her.

    “Check it out,” Charlie said, “I just bought the new Nokia D3200, and we’re going to Canyon Lake to try it out. Come out of your hobbit hole and join us.”

    Cas raised an eyebrow at her. “I don’t think so. After all, if this is a hobbit hole, then hobbit holes mean comfort, remember?”

    Charlie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but even Bilbo left the shire every once in a while!”

    Cas narrowed his eyes at the girls’ hopeful expressions. “Can I bring my sketchbook?”

    “Duh.” Anna said. “Why do you think I agreed to come along?”

    Cas glanced between Charlie and Anna and then he nodded with resignation. “Alright. Give me two seconds.”  

    Anna had always been a more cautionary driver than Charlie, so Castiel was glad they had taken Anna’s Jetta. They drove with the windows down, and the sun was warm on Cas’ face. Glancing at the girls in the front seat, he pulled the sleeves of his shirt up experimentally. He inspected his arm’s untouched skin, and he allowed himself a small moment of pride. But the old scars were still too noticeable, so he pulled his shirtsleeves back down, even though the shirt felt too warm.

    Canyon Lake was a huge park on the edge of the city. With summer over and school starting, the tourist season had finally died down, and there were less and less truckloads of families out to see Mount Rushmore or passing through to Deadwood. That Sunday, the city’s teenagers were out to take the park back. 

    Camera in hand, Charlie quickly found reluctant subjects in the form of a family of geese, no doubt migrating south from Canada. Beside her, Anna and Cas set up camp on the top of a large, flat rock. Anna quickly lost herself in her drawing, but Cas sat with his unopened sketchbook, feeling unsettled.

    “Stop that.” Anna muttered after a while, shooting the boy a glance. Cas looked at her, eyes wide.

    “What?” He asked.

    “Being… you.” She gestured impatiently. “It’s a beautiful evening on a long weekend. Now is not the time for an existential crisis.”

    Cas pursed his lips, looking out at the groups of other people looking stupidly happy – playing catch, having picnics, surreptitiously pouring flasks of alcohol into pop cans. “It’s not that simple.”

    “Sure it is.” Anna shrugged. “You need to get out of your own head, Castiel.”

    “If I knew how,” Cas snapped, “I would have done that already.”

    Anna glared at him, but then sighed. They were quiet for a few moments. Then she asked,

    “So… any point in me asking you to join the GSA this year?”

    “Nope.” Cas replied without hesitation.

    “Come on, why?” Anna whined, capping a fine-point pen and putting it down on the rock forcefully. “It might make school a little more enjoyable for you. You might even make more friends.”

    “I don’t want more friends.”

    “What _do_ you want, Castiel?”

    Cas just looked at her. He was sure nobody had ever really asked him that. “I don’t know.”

   

The drive out to Canyon Lake didn’t take all that long. Dean sped through the quiet streets, feeling the rumble of the bike vibrate through his bones. He couldn’t hear anything but the guttural engine and the wind around him, and he let it block everything else out; for a few minutes, he felt himself let go.

Canyon Lake was packed but Dean spotted Sam easily. The younger Winchester was surrounded by a group of people; a mass of letterman jackets and girls in skimpy denim shorts. They’d completely taken over a couple of picnic tables, and someone had opened up the back of a Jeep, letting music blast from the stereo.

It looked like a damn Abercrombie & Fitch ad.

Dean cut the engine of his bike and stood up, taking his helmet off as he watched the crowd. Sam was sitting on top of one of the picnic tables, his long legs bent and resting on the seat. Jess sat between his feet, one arm wrapped protectively around his leg.

That was when Dean hesitated. His apology had been perched on his lips – he’d even practiced the words in his head on his way there – but now they fell at his feet. Sighing, he leaned back against the seat of his bike and rested his helmet on his knee.

Sam looked happy. There was no bitter curl to his lip or defensive barriers in his eyes, like there always seemed to be when he was around Dean or John. For once, he just looked like a normal kid. Like he had no cares except for some forgotten homework at the end of a long weekend.

Dean knew that, no matter how sincere and good his intentions were, his presence would only shatter that. Even if his apology only took two seconds. And what if they started fighting again? Was he willing to risk that?

Dean decided to leave it. Sam deserved Dean’s apology, but what the kid needed right then was space. So Dean would give him that. With a defeated feeling, he pushed off his bike and started to put his helmet back on his head.

That was when he spotted a strange sight, just a little ways down the gravel parking lot, and he stopped.

Parked a few cars away was a blue Jetta, and sprawled across the hood, arm thrown over face his face, was Castiel Novak.

Frowning in amusement, Dean walked over, his motorcycle boots crunching the gravel. Castiel didn’t stir. His eyes were closed and his chest rose up and down steadily.

Dean stopped beside the car and watched him for a second. Then, with a mischievous little smile he asked loudly, “What are you doing?”

Castiel jumped up, his blue eyes snapping open in alarm and a gasp escaping his throat. He looked around wildly, but when he saw Dean he fell back on the car again, passing his hands over his face.

“Dude,” He said, “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry,” Dean’s wolfish grin didn’t make him look very sorry. “What are you doing sleeping on top of a Jetta?”

Castiel sat up again, his legs dangling off the edge of the hood. He ran his hands through his dark hair. “There isn’t much else to do here.”

Raising an eyebrow, Dean looked out at the swarms of people. “What, you mean vodka coolers and flag football aren’t your thing?”

Cas threw him a disparaging look. “Anna and Charlie dragged me out. But I sort of had enough of the Hollister-endorsed festivities.”

Dean gave a short laugh. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Cas leaned his elbows on his knees, looking at Dean. “So why’re you out here, then?”

Somewhat involuntarily, Dean looked out at Sam and his friends. Cas followed his gaze. “Just checking in, I guess.” Dean said. Cas looked like he understood, but didn’t say anything. Dean was glad.

As he watched Sam, in all his teenage-cliché happiness, Dean realized he was more than ready to leave Canyon Lake. But at the sight of Castiel, his blood had started pumping like it hadn’t been before, and before he could stop himself he turned to the kid.

“Well, what do you say?” He asked, “Wanna get out of here?”

Cas looked at him in blank surprise. “And go where?”

Dean shrugged. “Who cares? It’ll be better than this place.”

Cas looked around at the park and then back at Dean, a distinct look of longing on his face. “I don’t have my car here. Anna drove.”

“It’s cool.” Dean gestured behind him to his bike. “I got room.”

As Cas’ eyes landed on the bike, his face paled and his eyes opened wide in terror. Dean recalled something about Cas being nervous about driving; he suspected this fear applied to motorcycles, too.

“Don’t worry.” Dean said, flashing Cas a crooked smile, “I’ll drive slow, I promise.”

Cas’ eyes met Dean’s, and his cheeks flushed a faint pink. Then he dropped his gaze, looking out to where Anna and Charlie stood by the water.

_What the hell do you think you’re doing, jackass?_ A distinct voice demanded in Dean’s head, but he found he had no answer. All he knew was that he wasn’t leaving there without Castiel.

“Okay,” Cas said, though he still looked unsure. He jumped down from the car hood and Dean grinned at him, before leading him over to his bike.

Dean reached into one of the saddlebags by his back tire and pulled out a spare helmet. It used to be Sammy’s, but it’d been ages since the kid had taken Dean’s bike out for a spin. He turned and handed the helmet to Cas.

“Here.” He said. Cas just looked at it, visibly swallowing before turning a pair of puppy eyes on Dean. Heat flared up Dean’s spine and he thought, _oh dear God help me._

“It’ll be fine,” Dean said, forcing his thoughts back on the straight and narrow, “Trust me.”

Cas took a breath, accepting the helmet from Dean and putting it on his head. He fumbled with the strap for a moment before Dean had to help him. Then Dean pulled on his own helmet and swung his leg over his bike, gesturing for Cas to follow.

Cas threw the bike an untrusting glance, before sinking onto the seat behind Dean.

“Just hold on to me, and you’ll be fine.” Dean said over his shoulder. He felt Cas’ arms wrap tentatively around his waist, and Dean forced himself to focus. He’d given tons of people rides on his bike before – Sam, Ash, Tessa, Jo. There wasn’t anything _suggestive_ about it. This was for safety reasons, for chrissake.

Shaking his head a little, Dean turned the key and the bike rumbled to life. He felt Cas’ arms tighten a little, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“Ready?” He called over his shoulder, and he saw Cas nod. Just beyond Cas, Dean caught a glimpse of Sam. At the sound of the bike his head had turned, and now he was looking right at Dean. The boy’s brow was furrowed in confusion, but there was a hint of amusement on his face when he noticed Castiel on the back of the motorcycle.

Dean just grinned at him and looked away, revving the bike a little before letting it shoot forward. He didn’t bother to watch in the mirror as Canyon Lake disappeared behind them.

   

   

    For the greater part of an hour, all they did was ride. Setting sun cloaked everything; houses, pavement, trees and sky were all various colours of orange and red. It glinted off the side of the bike and the tops of their helmets.

    Dean kept his promise to drive slowly, but his slow was still nerve-wracking for Castiel. He kept his arms around Dean’s waist, shyly at first but then gripping tighter whenever Dean would lean into a curve of the road. It took about twenty minutes of riding before Castiel was convinced he wasn’t going to die.

    They drove past fields and mountains that Castiel had never seen before. He hadn’t realized his three years in Rapid City had largely been spent inside his gigantic house.

Soon, Castiel became brave enough to actually turn his head, taking in the landscape. He couldn’t believe the speeding gravel was inches below their feet; he watched cars pass on the highway and resisted the idiotic urge to reach out and touch their doors. Everything felt so close and real. He didn’t quite know what to do with it.

    After a while, they hit a particular stretch of highway. Everything was horribly, beautifully open around them: huge fields, mountains in the distance, expansive sky above. Castiel almost couldn’t believe it; it was if he had forgotten the world was actually _there_ , and now his eyes were finally opening.  

    Slowly and without really thinking about it, Castiel leaned back. Only a few inches, but it was enough. He could feel the wind, surprisingly strong, pushing against his chest and arms. The roaring sound of it was intoxicating. He closed his eyes and lifted his chin, breathing in as he focused on the sensation. It felt like flying.

His arms had loosened, just incrementally, from around Dean’s waist; loose enough to sense the risk, but close enough to still feel the warmth beneath that leather jacket.

    This took all of half a minute. Then Cas opened his eyes and tightened his hold again. It was another Sunday, another sunset, another weekend where everyone else was dreading the weekdays to come. But Castiel’s breath had quickened, and even above the roar of the motorcycle he was sure he could hear his heart pounding, because he knew that something had changed.

 

   

    Dean could have driven for hours. He often fantasized about doing just that – hitting the highway, just him and his bike, and not stopping. He’d even mapped it out in his head: he’d go south, through Kansas and then East through Missouri and Kentucky, until he reached the Carolinas. He wasn’t sure what drew him there. He just knew he’d never seen the ocean.

    Something always held him back. Sometimes it was fear of his father, but mostly it was loyalty to Sam. And that night, even though he wanted to ride until he hit the coast, it was because he suspected Castiel had probably had enough motorcycles for one night.

    Reluctantly, Dean drove back to the city. At a red light, he pushed the visor of his helmet up and yelled back to Castiel,

    “Where do you want to go now?”

    Cas pushed his own visor up, his brow furrowed as he thought. “Not home.”

    Dean grinned and pushed the visor back down, revving the bike as the light turned green.

    The boys wound up on the rooftop of a deserted building: one of those places that only a person like Dean would know existed or how to get to. And even if the derelict brick warehouse looked foreboding, the view of the stars from the rooftop made up for it. They were only starting to come out, the very last light of the sunset could be seen on the horizon. Everything was quiet up there: the traffic was muted, the wind was soft and there appeared to be no one around for a few blocks, at least. The two boys walked to the edge of the building, and the city lights opened up below them.

Dean smiled. It wasn’t like they were staring down at a buzzing metropolis, but the miniature lampposts and streets had a certain charm to them.

“Wow.” Cas said. “You know, from up here, it looks sort of peaceful.”

Dean nodded. “Things usually do, from a distance.”

He was quiet for a few more seconds, and then he hopped up onto the ledge.

“What are you doing?” Castiel demanded. Dean smiled at the slight alarm in his voice.

“Sitting,” He said, settling down on the brick and letting his feet dangle over the edge. Cas’ eyes shot from Dean to the sidewalk below. “What, you’re not afraid of heights too, are you?”

Cas narrowed his eyes at Dean. “Not afraid. Just… wary. It’s completely different.”

“Sure it is.” Dean raised an eyebrow. “Look, as long as you don’t have five or more beer in you, you’ll be fine.”

Cas pressed his lips together, shooting Dean a glance before hopping up onto the ledge and sitting beside him. There were only a few inches of space between Cas’ leg and Dean’s, and he wondered whether this was intentional on Cas’ part or not. If Dean were to shift a little, his arm would brush right up against the dark fabric of Castiel’s shirt. Nerves kicked up in his stomach, and his muscles tensed as he concentrated on not letting that happen.

Castiel was looking down at the lights, a strange look on his face. His eyes were narrowed and his mouth was set into a thin line.

“What?” Dean asked.

Cas glanced at Dean, smoothing his face out when he saw Dean looking. “Nothing.” He said. “It’s just… I’ve lived here for three years, and it still looks like a foreign place to me.”

Dean looked at the lights as he processed this.

“Guess that’s what happens when you don’t leave the house that much.” Cas said, giving a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. Dean glanced at him.

“Well, why don’t you?” He asked curiously.

Cas looked down at his hands. “I just… get nervous around crowds, or people I don’t know. It stresses me out. Even Anna can barely get me to come out without a fight.”

Dean thought about this. “You come out with me.”

“You’re different.” Cas said quietly, not looking up. Dean’s heart stuttered, but he couldn’t think of anything to say, so he just looked at Castiel. That ridiculous black hair was sticking up at strange angles again, and there were smudges of ink and pencil on his hands. In true Novak fashion, the black hoodie he was wearing managed to look clean and expensive, but everything else about the boy seemed frayed and unsure. It was incredibly endearing.

“Listen, Dean…” Cas said quietly, and there was a pained look on his face, but he still wouldn’t meet Dean’s gaze. “I really appreciate you hanging out with me, cause I don’t really make friends that easily. But I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, because I really like you. I don’t want to be just friends with you. So maybe it’s better if we just drop it.”

It took a few seconds for the words to process, but when they did, Dean stared at him in shock. Had he just said that? Holy shit, the kid had actually said it.

“Y-you…” Dean stuttered, trying and utterly failing to force his thoughts into words, “You, uh… what now?”

Cas looked absolutely miserable.

“Shit. I’m sorry,” He said, “I didn’t mean to screw it up, but I just thought you would want to know. Look, I-I’ll just go, okay?” Cas began to stand up, pulling his feet from over the ledge, but Dean reached out and grabbed his hand. There was an electric current between them now, and Dean knew he wasn’t imagining it, because at that small bit of contact Cas became completely still.

“No,” Dean said, “Don’t leave. Please.”

Cas’ eyes searched Dean’s face, and he settled back down onto the brick. Dean let go of Cas’ hand and he felt instant cold, like his skin already missed Cas’ that much. He took a deep breath.

“Cas… fuck, I had no idea. But… I really like you too. It’s kind of been driving me crazy.”

Cas just looked at him. “You like me?”

Dean felt heat creeping up his face. “Yeah.”

“Like… _like_ , like me?” Cas had this blank expression on his face, like he had just received information his brain simply couldn’t process. Which was probably what was happening.

“Shit, Cas, yes.” Dean was exasperated.

“But… _why?_ ”

“Does it matter?”

“Kind of, yeah.”

Dean looked at Cas, and then dropped his face into his hands. He could feel the blush on his cheeks deepening. “Because you’re really cute, okay? And you’re quiet and you actually listen to people when they talk; you seem really smart and just really nice, so that, along with your stupid black hair and those blue eyes and yeah, I like you, Cas.”

All these words had come out in a rush, as if Dean couldn’t believe he was actually saying them. Now Cas was blushing too, and he looked down at his feet, rubbing the back of his neck subconsciously.

“I…” He said, and then had to take a breath and try again, “I had no idea you liked other guys.”

“Well, it took me a while, trust me.” Dean glanced over at Cas. “I really didn’t know if you did, either. I suck with picking up on those kinds of vibes.”

Cas gave a short laugh. “Guess I do too. But I’ve known about myself for a while. I never really liked girls, or thought about them that way.”

“So,” Dean fidgeted, “You’re gay, then?”

Cas nodded. “Yeah. I’m not really ‘out’, though… I mean, Anna and Charlie know and Gabriel knows. But nobody else. What about you?”

Dean paused, thinking through his answer. He’d never really talked about this before, but it was kind of a relief to have somebody asking.

“I guess I’m bi?” Dean phrased it like a question. “I like girls. But I just seem to like guys more. Jo’s the only one who knows; she actually knew before I did. I think Sammy suspects something, but I haven’t given him much to go on.”

“So you’ve never…” Cas’ voice was hesitant, “Dated a guy before?”

Dean shook his head. “Never really had the chance. Rapid City’s a small town, you know?”

Cas nodded as he considered this. Then he said, “I haven’t, either. Not for lack of opportunity… it just never felt right. Like the timing was off, or something.”

Dean looked over at Cas now. His heart was racing. “What does it feel like, with me?”

Cas was quiet for a minute, studying Dean’s face intently. “I’m not sure.” He said. “I just know that I like you, and that something about you sort of just keeps me from dropping it.”

“So you don’t mind that I completely dragged you away from your friends tonight?” Dean raised an eyebrow at him, and Cas bit his lip a little.

“No, I don’t mind. I sort of like how you always seem to appear out of nowhere.”

At that, Dean’s face softened. Cas tilted his head at him and asked, “What?”

“Nothing,” Dean gave his head a little shake, “It’s just… everyone else seems to think of me as the guy who always disappears.”

Dean looked up at Cas, and saw those bright blue eyes, intense as always, bearing down into his. Dean’s breathing quickened and his eyes darted down to Castiel’s lips. Everything was deathly quiet around them, and the air had become heavy and thick, like those moments before a thunderstorm.

A violent, split-second internal war erupted within Dean: what did he do now? Did he kiss him, or was that too much, too soon? Cas had just told Dean he liked him, but there was still a nagging doubt inside his head. What if Cas didn’t want him to kiss him? What if he pushed him away? What if-

Suddenly, Cas leaned forward and closed those last bits of space between him and Dean. Cas’ hand was resting on the bricks beside his, and Dean held his breath and let his eyes fall closed, praying to God his heart stayed in it’s chest where it belonged.

Cas’ lips had always looked soft, but God, it was nothing compared to how they felt. Dean leaned into them, feeling warmth erupt all over his body, triggered just by that small point of contact. He wanted to pull Cas closer, wanted to feel the muscles in his arms and around his waist, wanted to part his lips and see if Cas tasted how he thought he would. But Dean forced himself to sit still. Everything about that moment seemed very fragile; he didn’t want to break it.

Too soon, Cas pulled back, and Dean’s lips instantly felt cold without Cas’ against them. He let out a soft breath, feeling his heart hammer away inside his chest as he opened his eyes.

“Sorry,” Cas said, looking down shyly, “I hope me doing that was okay.”

Dean could think of a hundred things Castiel could do that would be okay. But instead of saying this, he leaned toward Castiel again, reaching one hand up and gently holding Cas’ face as he pulled him in again.

Dean’s mind thought of song lyrics at the most random moments. Right then, as he felt Cas’ soft breath rush across his lips, a few lines of a song he hadn’t listened to in ages rushed through his head:

 

_Everyday, I’m learning about you_

_The things that no one else sees_

_The end comes too soon, like dreaming of angels_

_And leaving without them_

_Being as in love with you as I am._

 

*

 

    Cas swore he could feel his pulse jumping against Dean’s fingers. The boy’s hand was resting just below his jaw, and Jesus, he liked how it felt there: like Cas was something breakable. If anyone had ever held Cas like that before, he sure as hell couldn’t remember it.

    He couldn’t remember ever being kissed like that, either. One moment he’d been tentatively pressing hips lips to Dean’s, terrified of his response, and the next Dean was pulling him closer. His lips were just like him: strong but soft, coaxing Cas slowly out of his shell. He had to remind himself to breathe: shit, how did people even manage to breathe when they were kissing like this?

    Dean’s lips parted, his tongue brushing Cas’ bottom lip, and Cas’ breath hitched as he let his mouth fall open against Dean’s. He tasted just how he thought he would: like warmth and spices and coffee, and Cas had no idea how all of those things could taste so good. Shaking slightly, he slid his hand up Dean’s torso, letting it rest on his chest and grabbing a little at the fabric there.

    As Dean kissed him, Cas’ attention was pulled to a dozen different places and things at once: Dean’s nose gently bumping into his, the slight rasp of late-night stubble along his jaw, their knees knocking together as they turned toward each other. All these tiny details coming together, making everything seem bigger and more perfect than it probably was.

Dean rested his other hand on Cas’ thigh, and Cas ran his hand up around the back of Dean’s neck, carding his fingers through the hair that he could never decide was dirty blonde or light brown.

All sense of pretense gone, they kissed until their lips were bruised, tongues grazing in flashes of heat, but it still didn’t feel like enough and Cas let an almost pained sound escape from the back of his throat. Dean just pulled him closer.

Cas’ head was spinning; if you were to ask him what his name was, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. And this was such a strange, wild, out-of-control feeling that it scared him. It was only his first time kissing Dean Winchester, and the boy already seemed to be awakening in Cas feelings and sensations he had only half-believed he had buried somewhere. That seemed like an awful lot of power for one person to have, but Cas realized that he was more than okay with Dean having it.

 


	8. A Day At A Time

Waking up at a reasonable hour, feeling somewhat rested, was such an unfamiliar feeling that Dean almost completely freaked out. He had to check his cell phone twice before actually believing it was only 9:30.

After he dropped Cas off at his house – an intimidating mansion on the other side of town – he got home just a little past midnight. Blood still pumping, he’d dropped facedown onto his bed and resigned himself to a few more hours of restless consciousness. That’s when he realized his limbs felt loose and shaky, and he began to go over every minute detail from that rooftop, before drifting off to sleep.

Now, he padded out to the hall, eyes squinting against the glaring morning light. As he passed his father’s room he stopped.

The door was open, and John was sound asleep above the covers, boots off beside the bed and an arm thrown over his face. Dean frowned. He couldn’t remember the last time John had actually made it home to his bed before sunrise.

Dean continued into the kitchen, opening the fridge and peering inside. It was virtually empty, save for a carton of expired chocolate milk, three beers, a bottle of water and a single apple. Dean grabbed the apple and closed the door.

Just then, Sam came through the back door. He was wearing one of Dean’s old t-shirts and a broken-in pair of running shoes; Bones panted happily at the end of a leash behind him.

“Jesus,” Dean frowned at him, “It’s a long weekend, Sam. Ever try sleeping in?”

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean, breathing quickly after his run. He glanced at the kitchen clock. “I did sleep in.” He said. “What the hell are _you_ doing up?”

“Hell if I know.” Dean shrugged, but he was smiling. He leaned against the kitchen table, tossing the apple up in the air. Bones laid down on the kitchen floor, chewing at a clump of mud stuck in his paw, and Sam frowned at Dean suspiciously as he pulled the bottle of water out of the fridge.

“What do you look so cheery about?” He asked.

“What? Can’t a guy be in a good mood?” Dean raised his eyebrows innocently.   
  
“You? Not generally, no.”

Dean smirked. “Very funny.” 

Sam chuckled softly, twisting the cap off the water and taking a swig. Silence fell for a moment, and Dean bounced his knee up and down nervously.

“Listen…” He began, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wanted to tell you this yesterday, but it didn’t seem like the right time.”

Sam frowned, but didn’t say anything. Dean bit his lip.

“Sam, I’m sorry.” He said. “For Friday. I guess I could give you some bullshit excuse for why I started drinking again, but I don’t really have one. Plus I don’t wanna make excuses anymore. It’s just…” He paused, taking a shaky breath. “I’m sick of fucking up, man. So I’m gonna try harder.”

Sam watched him for a minute, eyes narrowed, as if waiting for Dean to deliver the punch line. Dean fought the urge to squirm uncomfortably beneath his gaze.

“Okay.” Sam said after a moment, nodding. “Thanks, Dean. But don’t just do it for me. You should want to get better for you.”

Dean looked down, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Right, well, I’ll work up to that. But right now this is all I’ve got.”

Sam was quiet, watching Dean as he nervously picked at a sticker on the apple. “I’ll take it, then.” He said, and Dean looked up, a small smile tugging at his lip.

He really had no idea how long he would manage to stay clean this time: there were too many factors to it, too many things that could happen and he still felt unstable and unpredictable. Yet he felt more hopeful now, knowing that Sam was on his side again.

  

For the first time in about a month, Bartholomew was actually taking a day off. Not that it mattered to Castiel. The oldest Novak still sat marooned in his office, coffee growing cold at his elbow as he flipped through medical journals and checked his email. The only difference was that he wore a t-shirt and old jeans instead of a power suit. Castiel had to hand it to him – the guy really did live and breathe his work.

 For Cas, the extra day off didn’t mean anything but homework. Really, he desperately wanted to see Dean again, but he held himself back. Even if they had exchanged cell numbers at the end of the night, the last thing Castiel wanted to do was make himself seem clingy. Because he really wasn’t - Cas was aloof and distant with just about everybody. It was freaking him out that he felt completely different around Dean.

Keeping himself busy, he caught up on psychology, made some extra notes for art history and even flipped through his biology textbook. He was chewing the inside of his cheek, trying to distract himself from the thought of his chem exam the next day, when he remembered that Bela had given him homework as well.

_I want you to think of some healthy coping mechanisms…_

Cas frowned, running his hands through his hair as he flipped open to a fresh page in his notebook. He felt a little ridiculous writing the words COPING MECHANISMS in his neat scrawl at the top of the page, but he assured himself it’s not like anyone else besides Bela would see.

He wrote a tiny little number one on the line below it, and then paused, pencil hovering above paper. What had helped him that day at school, when he was cowering outside of the art classroom?

His mind flashed to Dean, nimble fingers running against guitar strings, worn Chuck Taylors tapping softly to the music. Then he thought to last night, and how those fingers had felt against his skin, tugging gently at his hair, and blood rushed to his face.

No, he couldn’t write any of that down. But he had counted things in the music room, right? The steps and the people…

Holding his tongue between his teeth, Cas scribbled the word _counting_ on the first line. Then below that, he added _drawing_ , because it seemed obvious and an easy point. He wrote _music,_ but he put a question mark beside it, because sometimes it helped and sometimes it didn’t.

As Cas tried to think of more coping mechanisms, he soon became distracted when his cell phone buzzed from where it was plugged into the wall. He had been expecting Anna, giving him shit for ditching her and Charlie at Canyon Lake, but his heart kicked up when he saw Dean’s name beside the caller ID.

Cas’ stomach jumped, and he unplugged his phone before holding it in a slightly shaking hand. Clearing his throat a little, he swiped the screen to answer, then held it up to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” Dean’s voice floated through the line, and Cas swore he could hear a smile in it. His heart pounded. “What’s up?”

Cas bit his lip nervously, glancing over his shoulder at the scribbled words on his notebook. “Not a whole lot.” He said, turning away from it and sitting down on the edge of his bed. He didn’t trust his ability to keep standing during this conversation. “Just… trying to do some homework.”

“Yeah, same here.” Dean replied, sounding completely at ease. Jesus, did he _ever_ get nervous? “Sort of screwed myself over when I missed class on Friday.”

“Right,” Cas said, lying back on the bed in an attempt to settle his stomach. He stared at the wood beams of the ceiling. “So where exactly were you?”

Dean gave a soft laugh. “Asleep. Told you I have a messed up sleeping schedule.”

Cas laughed too. “Hey, that doesn’t sound so bad to me right now. I wish I could sleep through school tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“I have an exam in chem and my notes got trashed. So I haven’t even studied.”

“Shit.” Dean said. “Who trashed your notes?”  
  
Cas rolled his eyes. “Tyson Brady. He _accidentally_ spilled water on them.”

“Asshole.” Dean said.

“Right?”

“Dude, that guy is idiotically stupid. In freshmen year, he set his own shirt on fire in shop class.”

Cas burst out laughing. “Seriously? How?”

“He tried to light a cigarette with a blowtorch.”

“Oh my God.”

“Exactly.”

Cas couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually talked on the phone with anyone – even his dad. But after just a few minutes of talking with Dean, it didn’t feel weird at all. And he supposed that to anyone listening, the conversation was pretty inconsequential. They talked about classes and other people at school and things that really didn’t matter much at all, but that didn’t change the fact that Cas didn’t want to stop talking.

Dean always found some way to make Cas laugh, and Cas would cover his face with his hand as his laughter softly shook the bed, and he didn’t care if Bartholomew as downstairs wondering who the hell Cas was talking to.

Later that night, after they’d reluctantly hung up, Cas found his notebook again with those three measly bulletin points. Shaking a little, he wrote one simple word at the bottom: _him._

He left it here, venturing down to the kitchen to get something to eat. When he came back up later, he stared at the list anxiously, before grabbing the pencil and quickly erasing the bottom line. But even if he looked hard enough he could still see the faded word pressed into the paper.

 

Late that night, when the sun had finally set, Dean collapsed onto his bed and closed his eyes. Did he dare to hope for a second night of good sleep? He doubted he would be so lucky.

Still, that day had been surprisingly good. Better than he’s had in a while…

He’d been kicking himself for calling Cas so soon (the next day was too soon, right? Are there rules for this?), but he hadn’t been able to help himself. Texting didn’t seem like enough, he just wanted to hear his voice so bad, soft and low and sort of gravelly. And then it was there, vibrating through the phone and into his ear, igniting a soft hum to run through Dean’s system. And they’d talked for hours.

Dean smiled to himself, remembering the sound of Cas’ soft laughter, when someone knocked lightly on his open door. He jumped and shot upright.

John stood in the doorway, his knuckles hovering above the door as he raised an eyebrow at his son.

“Sorry,” He said, “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.” Dean said, even as he passed a shaking hand over his face. He crossed his legs beneath him and looked up at his dad. John didn’t venture into Dean’s room often, and that, combined with the man’s frighteningly normal (aka: sober) behaviour throughout the day had Dean suspicious. “What’s up?”

John rubbed at the thick beard along his jaw and leaned against the doorframe. Dean was silently grateful his dad wasn’t completely trespassing into his territory.

“I was talking to Sam earlier…” He said, eyes not meeting Dean’s. “About what happened last week. I know I’ve been rough on you boys these past few years. It’s not really how I planned for things to go for us.”

Dean was quiet, looking down at the hem of his jeans. Between apologizing to Sam and talking to Cas all day, he felt like he was emotionally stretched as it was. He didn’t have the capacity for this right now.

“What I’m saying is,” John tried again, “I want things to change around here. So I’ve put my notice in at Fort Meade, and the army’s gonna try and set something up for me closer to town.”

Dean looked up at John, his eyes untrusting. “What brought this on?”

John shrugged. “I’m not sure, to be honest. But better late than never, right?”

Dean didn’t say anything.

“Anyways, I’m gonna be around more often.” John went on. “And I’m gonna try and cut back on the drinking.”

Dean gave a soft snort. “Ever thought of AA?”

His voice was sarcastic, and he expected to be immediately reprimanded. But John just gave him a sad smile.

“I have, actually. I can’t expect you to be clean if I’m not. But… baby steps first, I guess. We’ll see how it goes.”

Dean’s jaw tensed, and he searched his dad’s face. This felt like a horribly unfair curveball. It was almost more comfortable when his dad was being an asshole, because it was familiar. But this? He wouldn’t play this game. Dean wouldn’t let himself hope that John could go back to who he actually was, beneath the alcoholism and grief and the goddamn PTSD.

Still, Dean gave a short nod. John seemed to understand it was all he was getting out of his son right then, because he nodded back, before pushing away from the door frame and disappearing down the hall.

   

 

On Tuesday morning, Castiel sat in his car for a full ten minutes. He watched the other students as they pulled into the parking lot, trudging into the building with resigned, stooped shoulders. The lingering summer weather was gone. Grey clouds obscured any hint of sun, and the first leaves had started to turn, as if summer had literally died overnight.

Castiel twirled his car keys in his hand, biting his lip. There were a few reasons why he had to mentally and physically force himself to go to school today. He didn’t want to suffer through his chem exam, and he definitely didn’t want to face Anna. But mostly, he was terrified of seeing Dean.

Because he wanted to, _so bad_ – that was the problem. And he was terrified that after just one look at Dean, every feeling he had about him would be written all over his face. And then everyone would know.

And what if Dean didn’t talk to Castiel at all? Maybe Cas had misunderstood what exactly they were doing. Maybe Dean wanted to keep everything a secret, so Cas would have to walk around school pretending he didn’t know him, not being able to talk to him at all…

Pressing the jagged edges of his keys into his hand, Cas pushed himself out of his car and walked into school. He figured the sooner this day was over, the better.

Anxiety pulsing through him, Cas hastily threw his books in his locker. The halls were packed with kids, creating a cacophony of noise, so Cas almost didn’t notice when a figure leaned against the locker door next to him.

“Heya, Cas.” It said, and Cas jumped a little. His blue eyes shot over, immediately finding the candy-apple green eyes of Dean Winchester.

“Dean,” Cas said, swallowing against the thrill the boy’s name sent up his spine. Dean grinned at him, his white teeth flashing wolfishly.

“So you didn’t decide to skip out on classes today?”

“No.” Cas shook his head. “Bartholomew probably would have killed me.”

“Good, cause I got something for you. Check it out…” Dean slid his backpack off his shoulder and unzipped it. Castiel just watched him, taking advantage of Dean’s distraction to look without being noticed. He was wearing a grey t-shirt beneath red flannel, and his jeans had a small tear in one knee. His light hair still looked slightly damp, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower, and Cas suddenly noticed the peppering of tiny freckles across his nose and around his eyes.

“Here,” Dean pulled a piece of paper out of his bag and held it out to him. Cas swallowed, tearing his eyes away from Dean as he took it.

“What’s this?”

“The answer key for the first exam of Henrikson’s AP chem class.” Dean said proudly, licking his lips a little as he looked at Cas.

“Seriously? Where’d you get this?” Cas frowned, looking at the paper more closely.

“I know a guy.” Dean shrugged. “He’s a computer wizard. Hacking into the school’s computers is like batting apples out of trees for Ash.”

Cas flipped the paper over, eyes roaming over the neatly printed words. “Dean, I can’t take this.” He said. “It’s cheating.”

Dean’s grin spread wider, and he tilted his head a little at Cas. Cas’ stomach jumped. “Cheating is relative. Besides, it’s only this once. It’s not your fault the village douchebag wrecked your notes.”

Cas was quiet as he considered this. “You might have a point.”

“Of course I do.” Dean replied. Cas just looked at the paper. Though guilt was stirring shallowly in his gut, the relief he felt was stronger. Maybe he wasn’t going to fail after all. He looked up at Dean.

“Thanks.” He said quietly.

“Don’t mention it.” Dean replied, his face softening as he looked at Cas. Cas allowed himself a few short seconds to look back, before he felt himself blush and he dropped his eyes. He stuffed the paper into his notebook and shut his locker, and he and Dean fell into step with one another as they walked down the hall.

“What class do you have now?”  Dean asked.

“AP Bio. You?”

“AP Lit. Meet you after class?”

“Yeah, okay.”

At the end of the hallway, Cas turned left and Dean went right, but Cas still looked over his shoulder at him before he lost sight of that red flannel in the crowd.

 

It was like Dean and Cas had become boomerangs. Before each class, they’d split away, parting at the ends of hallways and in doorways, only to find their way back to one another once the hour was over. Cas talking to Dean was all sideways glances and soft blushes, keeping his voice low, while Dean all but followed him around like an overexcited puppy. The only thing missing was a furiously wagging tail.

At the end of the day, Cas had gone to the library to look for figure reference books. Dean was more than happy to tag along, quietly watching Cas pull out book after book and skim through the pages. He liked the way Cas’ blue eyes roamed over the glossy pictures; how he held his tongue in his teeth when he concentrated. When he really looked, Dean saw that Cas’ black hair actually had a few strands of dark brown in it.

Dean crossed his arms, leaning against the wall of books. He could get used to taking each day to notice things about Cas. Maybe he should start writing them down…

Cas looked up, feeling Dean’s gaze on him.

“What?” He asked, his soft voice a little loud in the quiet of the library.

“Nothing.” Dean shook his head, looking down at his hands. He pulled at the leather bracelets on his wrist nervously. “Look, Cas… I sort of want to ask you something.”

Cas looked at Dean, pushing a book back onto its place on the shelf. “Okay.”

“Okay. I was just thinking… I’d really like to take you out sometime. Like on an actual date.” Dean could feel his face turning red, and he chanced a peak up at Cas. His blue eyes were watching Dean carefully. “There’s a show at the Roadhouse on Friday, and I heard it’s supposed to be good. So I was wondering… if you’d want to go with me?”

Cas was quiet, but his lip slowly lifted up in a warm, crooked smile. He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Dean grinned, letting out a relieved breath. “Thank God. I was terrified you’d say no.”

“Believe me, I wouldn’t.” Cas laughed softly, before his face grew serious. “Except, the Roadhouse is a pretty popular place, especially when they have a show. Lots of other people are going to be there. So… would that be okay? Being seen with me?”

Dean reached up, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “I thought about that. I know you’re not out yet. So if you want, we could make it look like we’re just friends. I’ll even make a sleazy attempt to pick up some chick and get slapped, if it’ll make it more convincing. But honestly I don’t care who sees me with you.”

Cas was quiet for a moment, studying Dean’s face. Those blue eyes were intense, and Dean fought the urge to look away. He wanted Cas to see how serious he was.

“Dean,” He said quietly, his face a little pained, “I’ve had a crush on you since I moved here. So if I’m going on a date with you, I definitely don’t want it to look like we’re just friends.”

“Neither do I.” Dean agreed, but Cas just looked sadder.

“So you’re willing to come out, just because of me?”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.” Dean tried not to sound too hurt.

“Well, it could be.” Cas ran a hand through his hair, leaning against the bookshelf and sliding down to the floor. Dean just watched, before settling down on the floor beside him. “Too many things could go wrong.”

“Like what?” Dean challenged, before immediately regretting it. He knew what could go wrong. Blue eyes flashed over to his, suddenly angry.

“Well, what if your family doesn’t approve? You could get kicked out. Or any asshole could decide to beat the shit out of you! And I’m pretty sure I’m not worth that.”

Dean frowned. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” Cas insisted. “You’ve kept this a secret up until now. So why rock the boat?”

“Because I want to!” Dean’s voice was urgent, but hushed enough not to catch the attention of the librarian. Cas’ jaw tensed, but he met Dean’s angry gaze levelly. “The only reason I kept it a secret was because I didn’t have a reason not to. But from where I’m standing, Cas, you’re a pretty damn good reason.”

Cas swallowed, but he didn’t say anything. He tore his eyes away from Dean’s, and Dean felt his muscles go slack without the weight of them.

“Is that what your worried about, too?” Dean asked quietly. “Your family disowning you? Getting beat up?”

Cas looked at his hands. “A little. I know people are supposed to be more open-minded these days, it’s just…” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. “Whatever. It’s not me I’m worried about.”

“You’re worried about me, then?” Dean asked incredulously. Cas looked over at him and nodded silently. “Why?”

Cas looked away, his voice soft. “I feel sort of protective of you.”

Now, Dean’s face went completely blank with surprise. His mouth dropped open a little but no sound came out. He couldn’t really think of anything to say, but the thought that someone like Cas found him worthy of protection made warmth bloom in his stomach.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Cas.” Dean finally managed, his voice soft. “I can look after myself. I have been for years.”

“I know you have.” Cas replied. “But aren’t you tired of it?”

“It doesn’t matter if I’m tired or not.” Dean said roughly, and he could almost hear his father’s voice behind the words. He shook his head a little. “Look, let me bottom line it for you. I know it’s going to be hard – hell, it’ll probably be downright terrifying. But I’m ready for it. So if you want to, then I want to.”

“I want to, Dean.” Cas said, leaning toward him. “Believe me, I do. But if something goes wrong, if you get hurt because of me…”

“I won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Call it a gut feeling.”

Cas pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes at Dean.

“Look,” Dean said, “I’m not saying we’re going to march into school with Pride flags and throw glitter in the air – though we can do that too, if you want.” Cas snorted softly, and Dean grinned. “We’ll just mind our own business, and do our thing. If people want to talk, let them. And when the time feels right to tell people, then we will.”

Cas’ eyes held Dean’s, and he let out a long breath. “It sounds simple when you say it like that.”

“See? We’ll just… take it a day at a time.”

Cas nodded. “A day at a time.”

 

Every morning, as Cas showered and made coffee and gathered his schoolbooks, he had to repeat those words in his head: _we’ll just take it a day a time._ It made everything a little less frightening.

Still, the fear was there. Upon waking, Cas would wonder if today would be the day it happened. If someone would notice the way he looked at Dean, or how Dean would brush his fingers along Cas’ arm before they parted in the hallway, and start throwing those vicious words at them that Cas could barely bring himself to think about.

Or what if something worse happened? What if some assholes cornered Dean while he was walking out to his bike? He always parked along the back end of the school, where it was usually deserted and dark.

He tried to tell himself he was overthinking it. Their school had a GSA. That was a good sign, right? Still, out of a school of three hundred people, the GSA only had about two dozen members. So where did that leave everyone else?

Cas didn’t regret the decision to be open about it. The thought of trying to keep everything hidden and living in secret seemed worse, and besides, feeling Dean’s leg resting gently against his at lunch was a reward in itself. Still, he wished the goddamn constant fear would go away.

On Thursday morning, Cas sat at the kitchen island, reading through the week’s psychology notes. He clicked his pen in agitation.

“Cas?” The voice echoed a little in the empty kitchen, and Cas jumped. Bartholomew was standing on the other side of the counter, his long hands expertly knotting the tie around his neck. “How’re you holding up? You’ve seemed a little on-edge this past week.”

Cas swallowed, glancing over to where he could see his reflection in the microwave door. He knew he looked a little worse for wear. Though his hair and clothes were as neat as they always were, dark circles had begun to show under his eyes, and his face was uncharacteristically pale.

“I’m fine.” Cas lied. “A little under the weather, maybe. I think something’s going around at school.”

“Hm.” Bartholomew pursed his lips, and Cas could tell he hadn’t bought it. “Maybe. I talked to Bela Talbot yesterday, just to see how things are going.”

“Ever thought of just asking me?” Cas snapped. Bartholomew tilted his head and narrowed his eyes.

“Would you tell me the truth?”

Cas was silent.

“See? I know you too well, Cas.” Bartholomew finished knotting his tie and pulled it straight.

_That’s what you think,_ Cas thought bitterly.

“There’s nothing to get snippy about, though. She says that you’re doing quite well.” Bartholomew went on, leaning his hands against the kitchen counter. “But I have a few concerns. I think you’re having trouble adjusting to the workload this year. You’ve only had one exam and you had enough trouble getting through that.”

Castiel fidgeted nervously. Bartholomew always proved to be more observant than Cas gave him credit for, and it annoyed him to be reminded of that. Mostly because Bartholomew had the habit of observing Cas as if he were a patient and not his own brother.

“That being said, I think we should be more realistic about this. There’s nothing wrong with needing a little extra help.” Bartholomew fished in his suit jacket pocket, pulling out a small orange bottle with a white lid. He put it down on the kitchen table, the pills inside rattling softly.

“What are those?” Cas asked darkly.

“Wellbutrin.” Bartholomew replied, slipping easily into Doctor-mode. “This is what we talked about, after you quit the last meds you were on.”

“That’s because Prozac did shit for me.”

“And you still refuse to try Zoloft.”

“Yep.” Cas said stubbornly.

“Well, this is the happy medium, Cas. Wellbutrin isn’t an SSRI; it’s very mild, hardly any side effects. All it will do is help you concentrate and bring your anxiety down. So it’s win-win, here.”

 Cas didn’t say anything. Bartholomew just looked at him, then glanced at the kitchen clock.

“Shit, I gotta go. Please, just try them, okay?” Bartholomew gave Cas one last stern glance, before leaving the kitchen. Cas just sat there, staring at the bottle until he heard the front door open and close.

 

Thursday afternoon was rainy. Every window in the Winchester house was open, and cool, rain-thick air poured in. It smelled fresh and sweet but somewhere behind it was the promise of snow and winter; it made Dean shiver slightly as he closed the front door behind him and kicked off his shoes.

As he did, he looked around uncertainly. Things around his house that week had been… strange. Too quiet and too normal. John had been getting up at respectable hours, starting coffee and making sure the boys made it to school. Sam and Dean would return home each day, finding the house getting gradually cleaner and cleaner, while small amounts of decent groceries appeared in the fridge and cupboards. Even random maladies around the house were suddenly fixed. They had hot water in the kitchen again, and the bathroom door finally closed all the way.

Sam would raise his eyebrow at Dean dubiously, but Dean hardly acknowledged it. He didn’t expect John’s sudden domestic streak to last long anyways.

Now, Dean collapsed onto the couch, throwing an arm over his face. He could hear Sam rummaging around in his room, but John wasn’t home, so he took the moment to enjoy the peace and quiet. He’d had his appointment with Bela that afternoon, and as always, it left him feeling a little mentally drained.

He’d handed in his list of five things, and strangely enough, he hadn’t had to bullshit a single one. His hands had shook as Bela read over the words:

 

_Music_

_Riding my bike_

_Hanging out with Sam_

_Taking Bones for a walk_

_Cas_

He’d almost erased that last one. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it, because it was the truth. So why not leave it?

To his relief, Bela hadn’t made a big deal out of it. She actually seemed ecstatic that the two of them had become friends, because she thought they would be “good for one another”. And that was good enough for Dean. But all too soon, the conversation turned to his fight with Sam and his dad’s apparent change of heart over the weekend, and now Dean felt absolutely worn out.

He was almost asleep when Sam padded into the front room, Bones following loyally behind him.

“Dean?” He asked softly. “Are you asleep?”

Dean sighed. “I guess not.” He said, opening his eyes.

“Good, cause I…” Sam paused, licking his lips a little. “I – I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Dean frowned and sat up. “Okay, shoot.”

Sam fidgeted a little, and then sat in the armchair beside the couch. He rested his elbows on his knees and stared at his hands. Silence fell.

“Jesus, Sam, what is it? The last time I saw you this uncomfortable you were asking me if I had any spare condoms.”

Sam covered his face with his hands. “Oh my God, stop talking.” He said, but he was laughing softly. Dean laughed too, before his face smoothed out again.

“Seriously, though. What’s up?”

Sam bit his lip, took a breath and said, “It’s just… I’ve noticed you’re hanging out with Castiel a lot.”

Ice flooded Dean’s veins. He’d told himself he was ready for this conversation, but being here, suddenly facing it, was terrifying. He fought the urge to deny everything and retreat back to his room.

“And like, that’s cool cause he seems really nice.” Sam went on. “So it’s awesome that he’s your friend. It’ just… I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at each other. He’s not just your friend, is he?”  
  
Sam looked up at Dean now, and Dean stared determinedly at his hands. Sam didn’t sound hostile or disgusted or judgmental, which were all very good things. He just sounded… curious. Maybe a little concerned.

Dean took a shaky breath, his heart racing. “No, Cas isn’t just my friend. And I guess I knew I’d have to talk to you about this sooner or later, but I didn’t think it would be _this_ soon.”

Sam scoffed a little. “Really? Come on, I can read you like a book.”

“You can not!” Dean said indignantly.

“Can to.” Sam argued. “But that’s not the point right now. I just… I want you to know that you can tell me things.”

Dean looked at Sam. _Okay. This is good, right? This is the ideal reaction to these types of situations…_

“Okay,” Dean said slowly, clearing his throat. He sat up a little on the couch, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. So, the thing is… I like guys. For a few years now; it just took me a while to figure it out. But I like girls too, which is why I dated Tessa. Even though that was the worst idea, but for different reasons, not just because she was a girl. But even when I was dating her, I still liked guys – like I thought of them that way, you know?”

Dean looked over at Sam, then shook his head a little. “Shit, this is coming out all wrong. Bottom line: I like girls and I like guys. So I’m… I’m bisexual.”

Sam thought this through, and then nodded. “Makes sense.”

“ _Makes sense?_ ” Dean repeated. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say?” Sam asked, surprised. “Sorry, Dean, but I sort of saw this coming. You have a poster of shirtless Chris Hemsworth up in your room.”

“Thor kicks ass!” Dean said defensively.

“So does Black Widow.” Sam argued.

“Yeah, well, she’s not my type.” Dean waved a hand dismissively.

“And Thor is?”

“This is what I’m telling you.” Dean clapped his hands together, and Sam shook his head at him, chuckling.

“And, I guess…. Cas is your type, too?” Sam asked, his voice softening. Dean swallowed.

“Yeah, he is.” He said, looking down at his hands again. “I really like him, Sammy. I wasn’t even planning on coming out while I still lived at home, but… I don’t know. Cas changes everything.”

“Are you going to tell dad?”

Dean looked up at Sam, his brother’s eyes creased with as much worry as Dean felt.

“I’m not sure yet.” He said. “Probably, eventually. But I’m going to give it some time first.”

Sam nodded. “That’s probably best.”

“I honestly have no idea what he’ll do.” Dean said, his voice cracking a little as he let himself feel the fear over this.

“Me either.” Sam agreed. “But I’m glad you told me, Dean. I’m on your side with this. But lots other people might not get it.”

“Think I don’t know that?” Dean asked quietly.

“I know you do.” Sam replied. “So just be careful, okay?”

Dean nodded. “I will be.”

The two boys were quiet for a minute, Sam looking a little more at ease, Dean still studying his hands nervously.

“So have you guys gone out yet?” Sam asked, his lip quirking up in a smile. Dean felt a blush creep up his face, and he smiled in spite of himself.

“Not officially, yet. But I’m taking him out tomorrow night – there’s a show at the Roadhouse.”

“Nice.” Sam said. “There’s going to be quite a crowd there, though. Sure you’re up for that?”

“Are you kidding?” Dean asked, masking his nerves with his usual cocky humor. “Bar full of drunks? I’ll be among my people.”

Sam laughed, but his eyes were still a little tight. Dean tried not to notice.


	9. The Roadhouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this ended up being way lengthier than I planned. 
> 
> Sorry that I haven't updated in a while, I was having some anxiety issues and had to take a break for a while. But hopefully I'm on the mend now, so I can focus a bit more on finishing this.

Dean had to think for a stupid amount of time before he remembered what he and Tessa did for their first date. Did they even go on dates? Did getting stoned outside of the theatre before going to the Tuesday cheap show count?

The truth was, when it came down to it, Dean had never really been on an actual date. And Cas hadn’t either, so he definitely felt the pressure – this date had to be good. Not perfect, maybe, but pretty damn close.

It seemed like luck was maybe on his side. When he got home from school, John announced he was going fishing for the weekend with Rufus and threw Dean the keys to the Impala.

“If there’s so much as a scratch on her when I come back,” He warned, “It’s coming out of your paycheck.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean said, looking down at the keys with a stunned expression. So now, he had the Impala, which he knew was good because he suspected Cas was still wary about his bike. Cas had offered to drive, but Dean wasn’t hearing it.

“I’m the one who asked you out.” He’d said. “So I’m driving.”

There had to be order to these things, right? Otherwise it would be chaos.

Dean was no nervous he could hardly bring himself to eat anything. To kill time, he busied himself with showering, and then changed his shirt about ten times before deciding on the black t-shirt he’d had on first. By the time he left to pick Cas up, he was nauseous and wondering why people bothered going on dates at all. If this is how they felt all the time, they better be worth the trouble.

His nerves kicked in to overdrive when Cas climbed into the passenger seat of the Impala.

“This is different.” Cas said, closing the door and looking around at the interior. “Where’s your bike?”

“At home.” Dean said, pulling away from the curb. “My dad’s away for the weekend, so she’s mine til Sunday. I figured you’d prefer this to two wheels.”

Cas shrugged, blushing a little. “I don’t know. The bike was sort of growing on me.”

Dean’s stomach twisted, remembering the way Cas’ arms felt around his waist, and he glanced over at Cas before fixing his eyes on the road.

“You look nervous.” Cas observed. He sounded sort of amused.

“I am.” Dean admitted, smiling a little. Leave it to Cas to just say it out loud like that.

“Nervous about me, or about being out together?” He asked.

“Both?” Dean looked over at him again. “Aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Cas shrugged, “But I’m nervous all the time. It’s sort of nice to have an actual reason.”

Dean gave a soft laugh, and then fell quiet. “So…” He said, scratching at his jaw with one hand, “It looks like Sam knows, now.” 

Cas looked over at him, his eyebrows raised. “Wow. That was fast.”

“I didn’t tell him.” Dean said, as if that mattered somehow. “He actually came and talked to me about it.”

“What did he say?”

Dean shrugged. “Said he wasn’t surprised, actually. But Sam’s a smart kid. And he’s totally cool with it – he said we’ve got him on our side.”

Cas smiled a little. “Your brother seems nice.”

“You should meet him.” Dean said before he could stop himself. “Like officially, I mean. You guys would get along great.”

To Dean’s relief, Cas smiled wider. “I’d like that.”

Silence fell, but it wasn’t all that uncomfortable. As he drove, Dean covertly glanced over at Cas. He was wearing a long sleeved shirt and a pair of dark khakis. His usual Chuck Taylors were on his feet, and his dark hair looked smooth and clean. Dean fought the urge to reach over and touch it.

The Roadhouse wasn’t far from Cas’ neighborhood, and soon Dean was pulling the Impala up to a free spot by the curb outside. There were already hordes of cars littering the street and tiny parking lot, and people lingered outside the entrance, cigarette smoke drifting into the air. Dean’s fingers twitched, but he pushed the craving down.

Dean cut the engine, and for a second, the two boys just sat and looked out at the Roadhouse. It’s wood façade and glowing lights were familiar to Dean, but it was the only thing that night that held any familiarity. Already he spotted a dozen people who went to their school filing into the building, and he swallowed before looking over at Cas.

“Ready?” He asked. Cas looked back at him, blue eyes suddenly fierce and determined.

“Ready.”

 

 

The Roadhouse had started as a dive bar, but once Ellen took over, she slowly transformed it into one of the city’s only reliable music venues. The stage was small, the dance floor was intimate, and the acoustics were great. And sure, maybe the bands that came through were unapologetically hipster and usually from Canada, but somehow the place had a crowd of devoted patrons.

Of course, it helped that minors were allowed in, so long as you didn’t try to actually buy a drink. Though there were rumors Ellen made exceptions to that law, too.

At first, Cas had been totally unsure about the thought of going on a date in such a loud, crowded place. Because he was Cas, and loud and crowded, of course, weren’t his thing. But after that first ten or fifteen minutes of being in the Roadhouse with Dean, Cas realized it was kind of perfect.

It was absolutely packed. Inside was about ten degrees warmer than out and Cas immediately cursed the fact that he couldn’t roll up his sleeves. But the crowd and the heat and the excitement of the show offered this kind of cover; even though they both ran into people they knew, and other people from school lingered all around them, no one really paid much attention to the fact that Bad-Boy Dean Winchester had showed up with Art-Hipster Castiel Novak.

Dean was ambushed by a couple of his friends – stoner-type looking kids with long shaggy hair and slouched shoulders named Garth and Ash – and he introduced Cas to them. Cas felt a little out-of-place at first, but they ended up being surprisingly easy to talk to.

To be heard above the noise, Dean had to lean in to Cas to ask him if he wanted something to drink. Cas felt himself blush furiously when he felt Dean’s fingers gently press against his back, and his lips brushed against his ear. All Cas could manage to do was nod. And the number of people meant that everyone was in everybody’s space, so nobody noticed that Dean and Cas were always standing so close to one another, Dean’s shoulder angled around Cas protectively and Cas’ shoulder bumping into Dean’s chest. And whenever Dean had to get Cas’ attention, to point out someone or ask him something, he’d gently take Cas’ wrist in his fingers and squeeze. Cas would hold his breath as he felt the warmth growing beneath Dean’s touch, and he’d lean closer to him so he could hear.

Yes, loud and crowded was fantastic. And it only got more so once the show started.

It was some band Cas had never heard of, but that wasn’t surprising, seeing as how Cas’ knowledge of music was abysmal. They showed up on stage in tight genes and Hawaiian button up shirts, which he supposed was supposed to be ironic somehow, and they each had hair down to their shoulders. The bassist had his pulled back into a bun.

Even if Cas didn’t know them, the rest of the crowd seemed to. They yelled and clapped and whistled at the end of every song, even when Cas couldn’t quite make out the words. But the music was good. The guitar was smooth and happy, the drums rhythmic and slow. Without meaning to, he started tapping his foot along.

Really, though, it wasn’t the music he was paying attention to. He was more interested in the warmth of Dean’s body right beside him; the way Dean took any excuse to touch him, to lean around him, to press closer. Even amongst the smell of beer and cigarettes and skunky weed, he could make out the smell of Dean: aftershave and leather and spices. He pressed closer to it.

As he looked around at the crowd, Cas was able to see other people who looked like they had come there together. There were two punk kids by the bar: a guy with stretchers hugging a short girl with blue hair from behind. There was a bearded guy with tattoo sleeves who had his arm slung around the shoulder of a blonde in flannel. And right up near the front, huddled by a speaker, Cas saw Anna standing next to Charlie, their matching red heads glowing in the purple stage lights.

Cas caught Anna’s eye, and she looked over at him, glancing between him and Dean with a questioning look. He just grinned, and she grinned back, rolling her eyes a little and mouthing the word _finally._

As Anna looked back out at the stage, Cas glanced over at Dean. He had his arm stretched out behind Cas, leaning casually against the bar behind them, and Cas stood in the crook of it. He smiled a little, allowing himself to feel something other than fear that someone could look at them and see that they were together. That Dean had picked _him_. 

 

For the first little while, Dean started to wonder that maybe he had picked the worst possible place to take Cas for their first date. And it wasn’t because it didn’t seem like Cas’ crowd – actually, the kid fit in with the Roadhouse scene easily.

It was everything else at the Roadhouse that had him worried. That Friday night marked exactly a week that Dean was clean and sober. Yet here he was, throwing himself into the belly of the beast, allowing himself to feel every kind of temptation. The bottles of amber liquor behind the bar; the cups of foamy beer passing through the crowd. The lazy cloud of smoke rising near the stage. All of it felt like a siren’s call, pulling him in closer, begging to pulse through his veins and take his mind out of his own hands for a while.

He was secretly happy that Ellen wasn’t working that night; she and Jo had gone out of town for the weekend. But if she’d seen Dean getting close to Cas, the worry that she would mention something to John would have driven Dean completely over the edge.

Dean tensed his jaw, screwing up every once of will power he had. Whenever he found himself staring a little longingly at those bottles of Jack, he’d lean in and ask Cas something. He’d touch his fingers lightly to Cas’ arm, concentrating on the contact as if it was a lifeline, and slowly he felt the panic loosen its hold. When he asked Cas if he wanted something to drink, he managed to lean over the bar and order two Pepsi’s. Nothing more.

 Once the music started, it all got pretty easy. The band was good – Dean had always liked them – and Cas was standing so close that Dean could feel the heat from his body. His blue eyes were watching the band intently, studying the movements of the front man with a little tilt of his head, like he was some foreign creature Cas wasn’t quite used to. Dean fought the urge to gently take Cas’ chin in his hand and kiss him. There was something about that look of Cas’ – all squinty-eyed and curious – that made Dean’s chest feel tight.

He couldn’t do it; he couldn’t just stand there with Cas beside him and pretend like there wasn’t anything happening. Slowly, he lowered one arm so that it was right by Cas’. He reached out with his fingers, searching until he was lightly brushing the palm of Cas’ hand, almost like a question. And Cas answered, his blue eyes darting over to Dean’s shyly before he reached back with his hand and wound his fingers with Dean’s.

When the band finished their set and the house lights came on, neither of them could bring themselves to let go. As the crowd moved towards the door, Dean squeezed his hand a little tighter around Cas’, pulling him close as they navigated the mass of people. He tried not to care when people raised their eyebrows at them and started muttering to their friends; he pushed down the realization that most of these people were from their school. He suspected he would probably have hell to pay come Monday, and that thought made him a little nauseous. But it was Friday night, and he was with Cas. Right then Monday seemed like a blissfully long way off.

 

Cas’ hands shook as he unlocked his front door, acutely aware of Dean standing behind him. He was always incredibly self-conscious of his gigantic house. He was used to it, but the floor-to-ceiling windows and pristine floors always seemed horribly excessive when other people were around to see them.

Why had he thought it was a good idea to go back to his house? He just knew that neither of them wanted to go home – or anywhere else public, actually – and Cas’ place seemed safe. Bartholomew was working a graveyard shift and wouldn’t be home until early the next morning. But now he was second-guessing himself.

After a few seconds of fumbling, Cas pushed open the massive oak door to the empty silence of the house and stepped inside. Dean followed, his hands in his jean pockets and looking completely at ease.

“Dude,” He said, “Don’t you guys have some sort of elaborate alarm system for a place like this?”

“We do, but we barely use it.” Cas said. “I’m not sure why.”

Dean walked ahead of Cas, standing in the expansive doorway of the living room. His silhouette was outlined a little by the huge windows opposite of him.

“This place is freakishly clean. And empty.” He said. “Are you sure you actually live here?”

Cas chuckled softly, walking up beside him. “It used to look more homey when Gabe was still here. But he took the TV and the stereo system with him when he went to college, along with most of the inventory of the wine cellar.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at him. “You guys have a wine cellar?”

Cas grimaced. “Please don’t make me show you.”

“Fine, I won’t.”

“I think my room is the only one that actually looks lived-in.” Cas admitted. Dean looked over at him again, smiling crookedly. 

“ _That_ you can show me.” He said. “I mean… if you want.”

 

Aside from Gabriel and Bartholomew, no one else had seen the inside of Castiel’s bedroom. Ever. Not Anna or Charlie and not even his father, before he’d left for Africa. So it was with a definite sense of panic that Cas pushed open his bedroom door with Dean in tow.

Everything was how he left it, and Cas thanked God he was a naturally neat person. There were no dirty clothes on the floor and his bed was made. But his eyes fell on his sketches and art supplies and books, and Cas was certain that these were far worse than any incriminating messes he could have conjured up. They were like tiny bits of himself that he usually kept hidden, except here they were haphazardly thrown out into the open.

Dean was quiet, following Cas into the room. As Cas turned on his desk lamp, flooding the room with gentle light, Dean walked closer to one wall and began examining the drawings pinned there. Cas blushed furiously.

“It’s kind of a dorky, I know.” He said apologetically, rubbing the back of neck as he looked around. “But… I don’t know, I guess I got sick of bare walls.”

“Are you kidding? It’s great.” Dean said, his voice quiet and sincere. “Did you draw these?”

Cas looked over Dean’s shoulder. “Uh, yeah. Most of them. A few Anna did – like those and those.”

He pointed out a few sketches, obviously different from Cas’ because of the thick marker and cartoonist style. Cas looked over his own pieces nervously – intricate muscle studies from last year, reference drawings from Toulouse-Lautrec paintings; gesture studies from classes when he should have been studying.

    “Wow, Cas…” Dean said, shaking his head a little. “These are amazing. You’re crazy talented.”

    “I’m not so sure.” Cas admitted, not meeting Dean’s gaze. Dean frowned a little.

    “You don’t like being complimented, do you?”

    “I don’t know. I guess I’m not used to it.” 

    “You’re kidding.” Dean just looked at him.

    “No.” Cas shrugged, leaning against the wall beside Dean. “Besides Mrs. Braeden, no one else really sees them.”

    Dean just pursed his lips, green eyes roaming over paper after paper pinned on the wall. His gaze lingered on a bigger piece; a particularly detailed sketch of a man’s bare back, wing tattoos inked on his skin. It was one of very few works that Cas had done in pale colour.

    “Do you draw these from actual people?” Dean asked suddenly, his eyes still on that drawing. Cas cleared his throat a little.

    “Only a few – like the smaller, messier sketches. But mostly I just draw from memory.”

    Dean’s eyes slid over to Cas and he moved in front of him, a predatory light flickering in his eyes. Cas drew in a breath, gaze fluttering from Dean’s eyes to his lips. He had his hands down at his sides, palms pressed to the cool wall.

    “Memory from what?” Dean’s voice was low, a soft rumble in Cas’ quiet room, and he braced his hands on the wall on either side of Cas. Cas’ stomach tightened, his wide eyes locked with Dean’s.

    “W-watching people, I guess.” He managed. Dean leaned forward, his body pressing in close to Cas until there were only a few inches of space between them. Cas passionately hated those few inches of space, but he was too timid to move a single muscle.

    “Do you ever watch me?” Dean whispered, his green eyes like fire.

    “All the time.” Cas said breathlessly, before Dean pressed his mouth to his. Cas took a sharp breath in, feeling hot blood rush to his parted lips. Dean kissed him in this maddening, teasing way: open-mouthed and light, sending points of heat and sensation radiating through his body.

    Shaking a little, Cas lifted his hands and grabbed Dean’s waist, pressing his thumbs against the hipbones he could feel beneath Dean’s t-shirt. Dean responded by pressing closer to him, sliding his own hands off the wall and cradling Cas’ face. He kissed Cas deeper, the heat of their mouths melting together.

    Dean slid his fingers up into Cas’ thick hair, tugging softly, and Cas let a faint groan escape the back of his throat. His mind was spinning again, but he didn’t want it to stop. He could feel the pressure of Dean’s hips against his, and he felt the heat radiating between their bodies. As Dean kissed him, deeper and more urgently, the only coherent thought in Cas’ mind was _more._

Deftly, Cas hooked his fingers through the belt loops of Dean’s pants and pulled him closer. He felt Dean’s breath hitch, and Dean moved hand one down, splaying his fingers against the small of Cas’ back. Even through their clothes, Cas could feel Dean’s body, insistent against his. He was all hard edges and pliant muscle: ribs above soft, flat stomach, protective arms and strong shoulders. Cas sighed softly, arching into him…

    Dean just held him tighter, before he slowly began to pull away.

    “Wait,” He said breathlessly, his lips moving against Cas’. Cas opened his eyes, trying to control his breathing.

    “What?” He asked, suddenly terrified he’d done something wrong.

    “I think,” Dean stopped and took a shaky breath. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think we should slow down. You’re driving me crazy and I just… don’t want to get ahead of myself.”

    Cas looked at Dean’s face. His cheeks were flushed pink, making his freckles stand out a little more, and his green eyes were bright. Their bodies were still pressed close to one another, Cas’ arms around Dean’s waist and Dean’s hands full of Cas’ shirt and hair.

    “Yeah,” Cas said, nodding. “Yeah, that might be a good idea.”

    With some difficulty, the boys disentangled themselves. Dean took a purposeful step back, leaving about a foot of space in between him and Castiel. Cas shivered slightly, feeling cold without Dean’s body heat.

    “Okay.” Dean said, more to himself than Cas. His breathing was still a little erratic. Cas reached up, running his hands through his hair as he tried to make his heart rate return to normal.

    “That was… interesting.” He said.

    “Interesting like _good_ , interesting?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow at him. Cas fought to keep from rolling his eyes, and he nodded. 

    “ _Yes_. I mean, I’ve kissed people before, but I’ve never really reacted like I do with you.”

    Dean blushed. “I know… it’s never felt like this for me, either.”

Dean’s eyes still had that hunger to them. Cas stuffed his hands in his pockets, fighting the urge to reach out and touch him.

    “Look, Cas…” Dean said, licking his lips a little. Just at the sound of his name, with Dean’s voice wrapped around it, made an electric current shoot through Cas’ body. “I’ve never been the guy who takes things slow. Like, ever. But… I don’t know. Going slow seems like the right thing with you.”

    Cas was quiet for a moment. He could still feel Dean’s touches like a phantom sensation – hands on his back, ribs against his, fingers in his hair. There was a tight ball of hunger in his stomach, but it was wound tight with nerves and fear, too. He knew Dean was right.

    “Yeah.” He said. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Slow is good.”

    Dean nodded, letting out a rush of breath. “Okay, so this is good.” He said, gesturing to the small, torturous gap between him and Cas. “Personal space. Good.”

    Cas watched Dean’s flustered expression, laughing a little.

    “What?” Dean frowned at him.

    “Nothing. It’s just… I never thought I would be able to have this effect on someone.”

    Dean snorted softly. “Well, you do.” He looked up at Cas, eyes moving from his blue eyes to his lips, then down his body.

    Dean turned abruptly, reaching his hands up and threading his fingers behind his head.

    “You gotta distract me, man.” He said. “I have to get my mind out of the gutter.”

    Cas felt himself blush, but he couldn’t help but smile. “Okay. What do you find distracting?”

    “I don’t know.” Dean turned to face him again, rubbing his jaw. “Music?”

    “I don’t really have any.” Cas admitted.

    Dean dropped his hand, a look of utter disbelief on his face.

    “You don’t have music.” He deadpanned. Cas shrugged.

    “Not really. I mean, my dad gave me this old record player and a few records, but they’re old and the selection is pretty limited.”

    Cas walked around to the other side of his bed, and Dean followed. There was a neglected record player perched on top of a small table, and below was his small stack of records. He gestured to them, and Dean knelt down to inspect the titles.

    “How can you not have any music?” He asked.

    “Not modern music, at least. Growing up, we never really had anything post-dating the fifties, so I just never got into it.”

    Dean was flipping through the albums. Cas’ eyes skimmed over the titles and musicians: _Firebird Suite, Rostropovich, Peggy Lee, Ella Fitzgerald, Chopin…_

    “I don’t really know any of this stuff.” Dean said, but he didn’t sound disappointed; more curious. He looked up at Cas. “You wanna pick something?”

    Cas blushed a little, sitting cross-legged on the floor, and Dean mimicked him. He took the records, thumbing through until he found one he thought would be tolerable for Dean.

    Dean propped his elbows on his knees and rested his chin in his hands, watching as Cas pulled the record out and leaned forward to set it on the player. He held his tongue between his teeth as he dropped the needle softly. Then he sat back.

    For a moment, the sound of soft fuzz and scratches bloomed through the speakers. Then, the plunky tune of an old piano sounded and a soulful voice was singing:

 

_The very thought of you, and I forget to do_

_Those little ordinary things that everyone ought to do…_

    Dean looked at Cas.

    “Billie Holiday?”

    Cas nodded, a sort of apologetic look on his face.

    “I like her.” Dean said. “But don’t you ever get tired of listening to the same ten records?”

    “I guess I just don’t notice. I’ll put a record on when I draw, but then I get so distracted that I never end up hearing it. It’s like I don’t actually listen.”

    Dean processed this. Then he asked tentatively, “If I got you new music, would you listen?”

    Cas didn’t even have to think before he was nodding. “Yeah. Of course I would.”

    Dean smiled. “Okay.”               

 

 

    It could be considered a good thing that Dean was used to being a topic of gossip at school. That’s how he tried to see it  - a silver lining, really. This wasn’t that much different.

By the time he sat down in his guitar class on Monday, he’d lost count of how many people he’d caught staring, or heard talking when they thought he couldn’t hear. And it was ridiculous, because it’s not like he and Cas made a spectacle of themselves. They just walked next to each other, sat by each other, snuck longing glances when the other wasn’t looking. There wasn’t much else to go on, and that led to at least a quarter of the school writing off the rumor that Dean Winchester was dating Castiel Novak as pure gossip.

Everyone else believed it. And the reactions were so different, Dean was almost getting whiplash. Some people would snicker behind their hands, muttering something like “I knew it”; others regarded the boys with barely concealed distaste. Only very few people seemed to not care at all.

    Now, Dean busied himself with tuning a particularly tricky sixth string on the guitar balanced on his knee. As he did, he watched a small huddle of kids at the front of the room. Their heads were bent over a pile of sheet music, probably picking out who wanted what, but two or three of them would routinely glance back at Dean before muttering amongst themselves. Heat crawled up his neck.

    Suddenly, Jo plopped down in the chair beside him. She rested her guitar against her leg but didn’t pick it up, and threw some papers up onto her music staff before regarding Dean with a cool expression.

    “What?” He asked apprehensively, drawing back from her a little. Jo was too much like her mother, and he didn’t trust her not to cuff him upside the head whenever he managed to piss her off.

    “You sure work fast, Dean Winchester.” She said, narrowing her eyes. “I’m gone for _one weekend_ and when I come back, I have to hear from _Ash_ that you hooked up with Castiel. Ash! And now the whole school is talking!”

    Dean rolled his eyes, muscles relaxing again. “Come on, what do you want me to do? Call you like a giddy thirteen-year-old to gush about my new boyfriend?”

    “Exactly. Yes.” Jo said. “So what, you’re out of the closet now?”  
    “Looks like it.” Dean replied, giving her a _what’re-you-gonna-do-about-it_ smile.

    “Spill. I want the whole story.”

    “Too bad, you’re not getting it.” Dean chuckled.

    Jo opened her mouth to argue, but just then Mr. Lafitte walked in, gruff voice booming above the noise of the class.

    “Alright, settle down.” He said, scratching at the rough stubble along his jaw. “You guys might still be in weekend mode, but it’s time to buckle down. Your first assignment is due on Friday so you all best be getting close to half-finished, at least. Which means less talkin’ and more singin’. Simon, Garfunkel, I’m looking at you two.”

    Mr. Lafitte pointed to Jo and Dean, who raised their eyebrows and regarded him with the most innocent expressions they could manage.

    “Alright, now let’s get to work.” Mr. Lafitte grabbed his own guitar from behind his desk, the wood instrument looking frail in his huge hands. There was rustling and movement as the rest of the class got settled, and Dean looked over at Jo.

    “See, chatty Kathy? Less talking, more singing.”

    Jo just stuck her tongue out at him as she picked up her guitar.

    They’d decided on covers of songs from the 90’s, and Dean tried to clear his mind and lose himself in the music. But even between songs, Jo would shoot him questions, and he knew the only way to get her to stop was to answer.

    “So who asked out who?”  
  
    “I asked him out.”

    “Awe Dean, that’s so cute-”

    “Stop that.”

    “Where did you guys go?” 

    “The Roadhouse.”

    “WHAT?”  
  
    “For God’s sake, Jo, don’t yell-”

    “You go out with him _at my own bar_ and don’t even tell me?”

    “I’m telling you now!”

    “Fine. So I know – and Ash and Garth know, obviously – who else knows, like, officially?”

    “Sam.”

    “SAM KNOWS?”

    “Jo, I swear to God-”

    “Sorry, _sorry_. How does Sam know?”

    “I told him.”

    “Wow. But not your dad, right?”

    “Definitely not.”

    “Who else?”

    “Um, Charlie and Anna know.”

    “Well duh, that makes sense. But you didn’t tell anyone else?”

    Dean shook his head, but he looked around at the room. “Honestly, I think everyone else is figuring it out just fine.”

    Jo pursed her lips, following his gaze. “Good point. Honestly, though, most of the people I’ve heard talking think that it’s adorable. You guys are obviously perfect for each other. I totally get dibs at planning your guys’ wedding, by the way.”

    Dean groaned, lifting an arm off his guitar to bury his reddening face in his hand.

 

    When Cas missed an entire month of school last year, there had been a brief rumor that his dad had taken him on an around-the-world cruise on a private boat. That was the most talk Castiel had generated about himself in his entire life.

    That is, until now.

    Everywhere Cas went, there were students peaking at him over their shoulders and from around books. It was definitely uncomfortable at first, and Cas had been ready to feel horribly exposed and vulnerable. But he didn’t. Instead he was a little relieved to have it finally out in the open. As long as it didn’t reach his family before he wanted it to, he was managing just fine.

    In art class at the end of the day, Anna and Cas sat in comfortable silence. She’d already drug every detail about the weekend from him, and now she knew to leave him alone. Cas focused on drawing, meanwhile straining his ears to catch any hint of music from the music room next door.

    “Cas?” A soft voice came from the front of the room, and Cas looked up. Mrs. Braeden was leaning out of the doorway to her office, which was attached to the studio. “Can I see you for a few moments?”

    Cas nodded, pushing his paper away from him a little as he stood up. Across the room, Tyson Brady looked up, regarding Cas with a cool stare. Cas ignored him.

    He walked into the office and she closed the door quietly behind him. Mrs. Braeden’s office was small, and filled with huge drawers made for holding huge pieces of paper. A tall table was squished in the middle of it, but there were no chairs. She leaned against the edge of it as she turned to regard Cas, and Cas, feeling uncomfortable, stuffed his hands in his pockets.

    “How was your weekend, Castiel?” She asked, smiling warmly. Cas’ heart skipped. Oh God, is that what she wanted to talk to him about? Did the _teachers_ know, too?”

    “Uh – it was pretty good.” Cas said. Mrs. Braeden nodded.

    “You always seem to have quite a bit more sketches than your classmates.” She said. “You must do lots of extra drawing in your spare time.”

    Cas nodded shyly. “Yeah, it um… keeps me busy, I guess.”

    “That’s good.” Mrs. Braeden said. “I was going through some old pieces I’ve had from previously classes, and I have quite a bit of work leftover from you over the past three years. I have to say, confidentially, that you’ve always been a little bit ahead of the class.”

    Cas blushed, but he didn’t know how to reply.

    “You have a spot waiting for you at Princeton, am I right?” She asked.

    Cas shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, it’s sort of the family school. We’re the fourth generation to go there.”

    “Have you ever thought of going anywhere else?” Mrs. Braeden asked, and Cas looked at her.

    “Not really.” He said truthfully. “I don’t really think that’s an option.”

    “What do you plan on studying at Princeton?”

    Cas bit his lip. “I haven’t really thought about it. Psychology, maybe?”

    Mrs. Braeden frowned a little at him. “Wouldn’t you want to study art in college?”

    “Studying art isn’t really in the cards for me.” Cas said, keeping his tone neutral. “My brother and dad don’t think an art degree would be very useful. They think it’s better as a hobby, or something.”

    Mrs. Braeden just looked at him a moment, her dark eyebrows knitted above her eyes.

    “Cas,” She said, taking a breath, “Maybe this isn’t my place, but I really think you should re-think this. You’re very talented, and trust me that you don’t want to spend your life studying or doing something that you hate.”

    She paused, reaching behind her to rifle through some papers on her desk. “I think if you talked to your family, they might come around. There are lots of Fine Arts schools that are on par with Princeton.”

    She turned back to Cas, passing him a handful of glossy brochures. He glanced down at them, eyes reading through the neatly printed names: _Williams, Rhode Island Institute of Design, UCLA, School of Art Institute of Chicago, SVA NYC…_

    He looked up at her.

“If your family doesn’t support you on it, there are always lots of scholarships we can apply for. And with your talent I’m sure you wouldn’t have a problem getting them.”

    Cas looked down at the pamphlets again.

    “Just have a look, and think about it. Alright?” She said.

    “Alright. I will.”

Back outside, Cas sat back down beside Anna.

    “What was that about?” She asked, shooting him a glance.

    “She, um… wanted to talk to me about college applications.”

    “Really?” Anna looked over at him with a hopeful expression. “Please God yes, she’s going to talk you out of Princeton.”

    “I didn’t say that.” Cas said shortly. “I just said I’d think about it.”

    Cas pulled his drawing back toward him, glancing up across the table. Tyson Brady was looking at him, eyes hard and mean, before he looked at the stack of brochures Cas had set on the table. Cas swallowed and grabbed the papers, stuffing them in his backpack, but not before noticing Tyson regarding him with an absolute murderous expression.

    Ice trickled down Cas’ spine, and he ducked his head, focusing on his drawing.

    He didn’t look up until the bell rang. When it did, he quickly packed his things, put his picture back on the shelf with his name, and retreated out into the hall with Anna. They were about ten feet out of the art classroom when Cas felt a rough shove from behind.

    He stumbled a little, and his bag slid off his shoulder and onto the ground. He didn’t pick it up but turned on the spot, coming face to face with Tyson Brady.

    “Sorry, buddy.” Tyson sneered, taking a step toward him. Cas backed up a step, but he lifted his chin to meet Tyson’s gaze. Adrenaline began to pump through him. “I didn’t mean to shove you that hard, but I guess you’re a little more frail than I thought.”

    Cas’ jaw tensed. Tyson was only inches away, his menacing brown eyes bearing down into Cas’.

    “Or is that just how Dean Winchester likes ‘em?” His voice was a low snarl.

    This hit Cas like a kick to the stomach, but he didn’t let himself show it. He fought to control his heart rate as he glared at Tyson with icy blue eyes. A crowd was gathered around them know, and Anna watched, terror on her face.

    “Awe, come on, Cassie.” Tyson purred, and Cas bristled at the name. “Don’t be liked that…”

He was only a little taller than Cas, but he was definitely more built. Cas didn’t care. He couldn’t feel anything except rage coursing through him, so hot and red that he was blinded. Heart pounding, he balled his hand into a fist.

 

    Dean filed out of the music classroom eagerly, Jo still humming the tune of “Wonderwall” behind him. He was barely paying attention, craning his neck toward the art class, when he noticed a group of people gathered outside the door.

    “Whoa, what’s going on?” Jo asked. A sick feeling dropped in Dean’s stomach, and he rushed forward and pushed through the crowd.

    In the middle, standing toe to toe, were Tyson Brady and Castiel. Tyson was sneering down at him, some menacing words on his lips that Dean couldn’t hear over the excited crowd. His eyes were mean and his muscles tense – typical Tyson Brady.

    Castiel, on the other hand, didn’t even look scared. His blue eyes were hard ice, and he held his chin high as he regarded the kid in front of him. His jaw was tensed and his muscles were locked down, looking for all the world like he was about to kill Tyson Brady.

    Dean wasn’t going to give him the chance. Dropping his backpack swiftly onto the ground, Dean moved between Tyson and Cas in two quick strides. His left hand grabbed Tyson’s shirt collar, the right one swung back, and he concentrated every ounce of fury and fear as he punched Tyson so hard he fell forward a little.

    The crowd gasped as Tyson was literally knocked on his ass. Head cocked to the side, he hit the ground hard, his elbow slamming onto the linoleum floor. Dean watched, his breathing ragged and his fist throbbing. Blood dripped from Tyson’s nose, but Dean didn’t feel any better.

    Eyes fiery, he leaned down and picked Tyson up a little by his shirt, before punching him a second time. This time the kid’s lip split open. Dean grabbed Tyson’s shirt in both hands, dragging him to his feet and slamming him against the lockers behind him. Tyson groaned, eyes squeezing shut in pain, and Dean realized the locks must have been digging into this back. He pushed against him harder.

    “Come near him again,” Dean growled, tilting his head to Cas behind him, “And I will end you. Are we clear?”

    Breathing hard, Tyson looked at Cas and then to Dean. He gave a small smile, blood smearing across his teeth.

    “Sure thing, Winchester.” He said quietly. Dean glared at him for a second, and then stepped back, shoving him back down to the floor. Tyson landed on his knees but he didn’t make a move to get up. He just touched a hand to the blood pouring from his lip.

    Dean regarded him coolly, and then looked down at his hand. His fingers were already swelling and his knuckles had split open.

    _Shit,_ he thought. _Guitar class is going to be a bitch._

    He turned to Cas, who was still watching Tyson. Dean bent down, picking up Cas’ bag with his good hand and handing it to him.

    “You alright?” He asked quietly. Cas took his bag, his eyes flicking up to Dean’s. Only then did they soften, just slightly.

    “Yeah, I’m fine.”

    “Good. Come on,” Dean turned, picking up his own bag and swinging it over his shoulder. The crowd was still gathered, whispering excitedly to one another, but Dean was happy when no one made a move to help Tyson. They just stepped aside as he moved past them, and Cas followed close behind.

 

It only took about five minutes before Dean finally started to feel the trauma he’d inflicted on his hand.

    “Shit,” He muttered, pain pinching at his face as he looked down at his swollen fingers. Purple bruises were blossoming beneath his skin. “I can’t drive my bike like this.”

    “I’ll drive you.” Cas said automatically. He was shaking a little, but some of the anger had left his eyes. He looked down at Dean’s hand in concern. “Actually, you should probably go to the hospital. Your hand looks broken.”

    “No, I’m fine. Besides, wouldn’t we run into your brother there? How would we explain that?”

    “Who cares?” Cas frowned at him.

    “I do.” Dean insisted. “We’re doing this on our terms, remember? I’ve had broken bones, and this doesn’t feel broken. Just… really, really bruised.”

    “Dean.” Cas said, blue eyes pleading.

    “Cas. Seriously.” Dean replied, and for a second the two just glared at each other.

    “Fine.” Cas relented. “But at least let me help you put ice on it, or something. That won’t be easy with one hand.”

    Dean bit his lip. “Yeah, okay. My dad is gone til later tonight, so we can go to my place.”

 

    Once the adrenaline had drained from Cas’ system, he felt shaky and tired. He’d never been in a fight in his entire life – he was sure wrestling with Gabriel didn’t count – but in the moment, Cas had been absolutely ready to hit Tyson until his fingers were broken.

    Maybe it was a good thing Dean had beat him to it.

    The Winchester house was the complete opposite of Castiel’s. It was small, cozy, and showed telltale signs of human habitation. There was no basement and only one bathroom; Cas idly wondered what it would be like living in such close quarters with other people. The concept was absolutely foreign to him.

    Cas could tell Dean was self-conscious about his house, but Cas adored it. The normal ceiling height and soft carpet made him feel comfortable and protected. Not like at his house, where he often had the sensation of being a lone straggler in the middle of a museum.

    After Dean had washed the blood off his knuckles, he sat cross-legged on the couch opposite of Cas, who had an ice pack in his hands. Bones lay on the ground below them.

    “I find it strange that you guys seem to have a stock of ice packs in your freezer.” Cas said, holding a hand out for Dean’s. Gingerly, Dean placed his now swollen and stiff hand in his palm.

    “Well, Sam gets sports injuries all the time.” Dean said, “And I get in fist fights, so…”

    Cas shook his head, laughing a little as he gently rested the ice pack on top of Dean’s hand. Dean hissed softly at the contact, but soon his muscles relaxed as the heat leached out of his sore joints.

    “Son of a bitch,” He mumbled, looking down. “I didn’t think I hit him that hard. I’ve never fucked up my hand this bad before.”

    “I find that surprising.” Cas commented, eyes flicking up to Dean’s. “No offense.”

    “None taken.” Dean shrugged. “I think it’s because I’ve never been _that_ angry when I’ve clocked someone.”

    Cas was quiet, pursing his lips as he lifted the ice pack to look at Dean’s hand. The swelling hadn’t gone down yet and the baseball-sized bruise was a rainbow of colours – blue, purple, yellow and grey.

    “You didn’t have to, you know.” Cas said softly. “Step in, I mean. I was about to clock him myself.”

    Cas had been half expecting Dean to laugh, but he didn’t.

    “I know you were.” He said seriously. “I mean, I wasn’t expecting it, but you looked pretty intimidating, Cas. I guess I just didn’t want you to have to do it. Why put a strike on your record?”

    Cas considered this and figured Dean had a point.

    “Hey…” Dean said suddenly, nudging Cas’ knee with his. “What did he say to you, anyways?”

    Cas shook his head. “Nothing. It’s not important.”

    Dean frowned at Cas, about to protest, when the front door opened. A tall boy with tanned skin and floppy brown hair entered.

    “Dean,” He said, throwing his schoolbag onto the floor. “What the hell happened? Apparently you beat the shit out of Tyson Brady?”

    “He had it coming.” Dean tried moving his fingers and winced, before looking over his shoulder at his brother. “Uh, Sam, this is Cas.”

    Dean nodded to Cas, and the anger smoothed out of Sam’s face as he noticed the boy sitting across from Dean. “Oh. Hey.” 

    Cas smiled nervously. “Hi.”

    Sam moved to sit at the armchair beside them. Cas realized that whenever he had seen Dean’s younger brother, he was either surrounded by a group of sophomores or on some sort of playing field. Up close, though, he noticed things he hadn’t before: like warm brown eyes that were surprisingly deep, and a pair of boyish dimples on his cheeks when he smiled.

    “So… what exactly happened?” Sam asked, looking from Cas to Dean.

    “Tyson was being a little shit, so I put him in his place.” Dean said roughly. Cas pursed his lips at him, and then looked at Sam.

    “Tyson was bothering me, and Dean took it upon himself to step in.” He supplied. At this, Sam’s face cleared, as if this sounded exactly like his older brother. His brown eyes were still on Cas, though, and his voice was concerned when he asked,

“Why was he bothering you?”

Cas swallowed, looking from Sam to Dean. Dean looked up at him through his eyelashes, waiting for Cas’ answer.

“He just…” Cas tried, clearing his throat a little. “It was nothing. He just knew what people were saying about us, and he wanted to get a rise out of me. That’s all.”

Sam frowned. “He came after you because of you and Dean?”

Cas nodded, concentrating on the feeling of Dean’s hand in his.

“That’s not right.” Sam said, shaking his head. “Can kids even do that anymore? We could probably report him. That’s straight-up harassment.”

“Maybe.” Dean said shortly. “But come on, Sam, nobody would do anything. He’s one of the school’s best athletes and he’s a senior. The authorities wouldn’t do shit to him.”

Sam fell quiet, biting his lip. “There has to be another option.”

“Well, there’s not.” Dean said. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll look after ourselves.”

Sam didn’t look very comforted. He glanced down at Dean’s hand resting in Cas’, brow furrowing a little.

“I guess so. I was sort of pissed off you were fighting again, but you’re right. He had it coming.” Sam stood up, clapping Dean’s shoulder as he walked by. 

Sam disappeared into his room, and Cas and Dean fell quiet. Cas lifted the ice pack again, and he saw that the swelling had gone down a little.

“How does it feel?” He asked quietly.

“Better.” Dean replied, but Cas got the feeling that Dean wouldn’t have admitted if he were still in pain.

“Are you sure? It’ll probably be worse tomorrow. Do you want some painkillers?”

Dean was quick to shake his head, pulling his hand from Cas’ and flexing his fingers. “No, it’s cool. I’m fine.”

Cas dropped the ice pack onto the couch and tried to rub some warmth back into his own fingers. He watched Dean. There was something masked behind his green eyes, as if he were fighting some small internal war. Cas opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but then thought better of it.

“Cas?” Dean asked quietly, looking up at him, “Would you really have done it?”

“What?” Cas raised his eyebrows at him. “Punched Tyson?”

Dean nodded.

“Surprisingly, yeah. But… I’m sort of glad that I know that. At least now I know that I’m not afraid to stand up for myself.”

Dean nodded, looking down at his hand as he made a fist and opened it again. “Good point. I don’t think he’ll be bothering us again, though.”

Cas chuckled a little. “Probably not, considering I think you broke his nose.”

Dean laughed too. “Man, I really hope I did.”

On the floor, Bones thumped his tail at the sound of the boys’ laughter, lifting his head and licking Cas’ hand. Cas scratched his ears.

“Oh, hey,” Dean said suddenly, “I almost forgot.”

Leaning over, Dean reached into his backpack with his good hand and pulled out an iPod, a pair of white headphones wrapped around it. He handed it to Cas.

“It’s my old one, but it still works.” Dean said, blushing a little as Cas took it. “And there isn’t much on it. But… I dunno, maybe you’ll hear something you like.”

Cas turned the iPod over in his hands. It was a well-worn, black iPod classic. The back was marred with scratches and chips, and the screen had a tiny crack in one corner. Dean was rubbing the back of his neck nervously, and Cas got the sudden impression that Dean didn’t usually just give things to people. He closed his hands around it and smiled at him.

“Thanks, Dean.” He said, though somehow he felt like the words weren’t quite enough.

 

    Later that night, Cas made himself finish his homework and work on a few sketches, all while leaving Dean’s iPod untouched on top of his desk. Only after Bartholomew had turned off all the lights and went to bed, and Cas had changed into pajamas and brushed his teeth, did he grab the iPod and collapse on top of his bed.

    He bit his lip nervously as he unwound the headphones. Giving someone music to listen to already seemed like an important gesture, but it seemed even more important coming from Dean. Like the equivalent of Cas giving someone a huge book of all his favourite pieces of art.

    Cas clicked the center button, and the screen lit up, glowing brightly in his dim room. He clicked on the “music” option and scrolled through the next menu, shifting through “artists”, “songs”, and “playlists”, before moving back up to “artists” and clicking on it.

    His eyes skimmed through the list of bands: _AC/DC, The Kinks, The Troggs, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Bachman Turner Overdrive, Styx, Animals, Bob Dylan…_ these Cas all recognized, even if he could only name a few songs. But there were lots of others he’d never heard of before.

    Cas went back and scrolled to the “playlists” option. There were only a few: _sad, happy, guilty pleasure, why can’t I fucking sleep,_ and _driving music._

    Fumbling a little, Cas picked up the headphones and put them in his ears. Then he picked up the iPod, selected the _happy_ playlist and picked a song at random. The silence of his house faded away as he closed his eyes, the music coming through those headphones feeling closer than anything else that was actually around him.

 


	10. Autumn Chill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: There's more talk about Cas' self-harm in this chapter. I'm trying my best to write this in a sensitive way. As a recovering self-harmer myself, it's only my intention to portray the struggles/emotions that come up when you self harm and you're trying to get close to someone or you're entering a new relationship. I'm doing my best not to romanticize it in any way, that's not my intention.

     Dean had been half expecting to get in shit for punching Tyson Brady, but surprisingly, none of the teachers mentioned it. He chalked this up to good luck and the fact that no one had been stupid enough to report it. Then again, most of the bystanders were probably assuming it was in their best interest not to rat on Dean Winchester.

    If anything, Dean was rewarded for his trouble when he saw Tyson Brady walking down the hall with an elaborate bandage across his nose. Both of his eyes were darkly bruised. Cas leaned over to him and whispered gleefully,

    “I _told_ you you broke it.”

    Dean grinned at him, and then nodded to Tyson as he passed them. “Lookin’ good, Brady.” He said, offering the kid a wink. Tyson sneered at him, but didn’t do anything else.

    If anyone had doubted Dean’s tough-guy reputation after the weekend, any misgivings were quickly discarded once everyone got a look at Tyson’s broken nose and cut lip. He would mutter something about getting hit in the face with a softball, but no one believed it, considering there had been a cellphone video posted on YouTube of Dean levelling Tyson outside of the art classroom. Luckily, Ash had had the video removed before the teachers got a hold of it.

    “You’re lucky you only _bruised_ your hand.” Jo scolded him at lunch, sitting across from him and Cas. “If you’d have broken it, I would have killed you.”

    “Well that’s counterproductive.” Dean raised his eyebrows at her.

    Anna looked over at Jo, her red eyebrows furrowing. “Why would you have killed him?”

    “We have a guitar assignment due on Friday.” Jo explained, before pointing a plastic fork at Dean. “Bruised or not, you have to be in finger-picking shape by Thursday, at least.”

    “Relax, I could finger-pick _Dust In The Wind_ right now if I wanted to. With my eyes closed.” Dean said smugly, and Jo rolled her eyes.

“You better hope so.” She said. “Your guitar skills are basically your only asset to this duo, considering you don’t even sing.”

“We’re not a duo.” Dean argued.

“Don’t you have to sing to be in senior guitar?” Charlie asked from the other side of Cas. Dean looked over at her. It had been strange at first, hanging around with Cas’ friends, but Jo had always liked the two girls and Dean had to admit they were growing on him.

“Not necessarily.” Jo supplied. “You don’t have to sing if you have an awesome, super charismatic partner who does all the singing for you, which Dean has.” She grinned at him.

“So you don’t sing at all?” Anna asked.

“Sure I do,” Dean said, and Cas looked over at him. “In the shower, in my car. Places no one else will hear.”

“I’ve been trying to catch him at it for ages.” Jo complained. “But it’s surprisingly difficult.”

“Feel free to hide in the trunk of the Impala, sweetheart.” Dean smiled at her, and Cas laughed.

Jo wrinkled her nose at him.

“You’re just like Cas.” Anna said, and Cas looked at her with an innocent expression.

“How?” He asked.

“You never let anyone see your art.”

At this, Cas shot Dean a sideways glance, faces reddening. Dean’s mind flashed to the sketches he’d seen on Cas’ wall, and how Cas’ body had felt pressed against his. Heat crept up his neck, and he shifted uncomfortably.

“That’s not true.” Cas shook his head, looking determinedly away from Dean. “I let Mrs. Braeden see it, don’t I?”

“That doesn’t count.” Charlie countered.

“Exactly.” Anna nodded. “How are you going to be a famous artist if you don’t let anyone see what you draw?”

“I’m not going to be an artist at all.” Cas muttered angrily, glaring at Anna.

“Well, you should be.” Anna said crossly. “Mrs. Braeden gave you those college brochures for a reason.”

Dean had been watching this exchange quietly, but now he frowned at Cas curiously. “What college brochures?”

Anna immediately looked guilty, pressing her lips together. Cas turned to Dean.

“It’s nothing. Mrs. Braeden just gave me some brochures for schools with good Fine Arts programs.” He looked back at Anna. “But nothing is going to happen. I’m going to Princeton, remember?”

Anna rolled her eyes, looking defeated. “Yeah, yeah. I remember.”

The bell rang and everybody moved into action, scraping at chairs and gathering books. Jo headed to her shop class and Anna and Charlie disappeared amidst the crowd, but Cas stayed beside Dean as he stopped at his locker.

“So…” Dean said, working to pull his Calculus book out from the bottom of the pile. “You’re going to Princeton? You never told me that.”

“Uh, yeah…” Cas rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess it just hasn’t come up yet. I sort of have a spot ready for me and everything. But to you the truth, I really don’t want to go there.”

Dean looked over at Cas. “Then don’t.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Maybe not, but going to a school you hate is probably going to be a bitch. So why do it?”

Cas raised an eyebrow at him. “You make everything sound painfully simple.”

Dean chuckled. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”  
  
“Both, I guess. I don’t know.” Cas paused, glancing around at the hallway full of students. A group of girls were eyeing the boys shrewdly as they walked past. “I’m having a hard time just looking past graduation to tell you the truth.”

Dean pursed his lips at Cas, a worried expression crossing his face. But he shook his head a little and said, “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

 

Tyson Brady didn’t show up in Cas’ art class that day at all. The room felt ten times bigger without him in it. Cas happily set up his things beside Anna, spreading out pieces of Stonehenge and ripping open a brand new box of conte crayons.

    It was a good day.

    Cas had already completed five extra sketches to make up for his missed classes, but he was sort of stuck in his figure study phase. To try and break himself out of it, he opened up a book about drawing wildlife and tried a few rough sketches of birds.

    Halfway through a drawing of a Blue Jay, Mrs. Braeden appeared beside him, leaning her elbows on the table.

    “Birds?” She asked, looking down at the chalky lines.

    “Yeah. Just… trying something new, I guess.”

“That’s good.” She nodded. “Realism works well for you. And that can be a difficult thing to master.”  
    Cas glanced at her, swallowing a little as he put his stick of conte down on the table. “Mrs. Braeden, I was actually thinking… about those brochures you gave me?

    Mrs. Braeden raised her eyebrows and smiled at him. “That was fast. I was expecting you to avoid me for at least a few weeks.” She said jokingly. Cas smiled.

    “Me too, actually. I’m not saying I’ll do it, though. But maybe I wouldn’t mind… looking into it.” Cas said, tripping a little over his words. He didn’t know why he was so nervous talking about it; as if he were afraid Bartholomew were two feet behind him, waiting to figuratively wring Cas’ neck. “I mean, I have no idea what you even need to do to get into art school. I’m just curious.”

    Mrs. Braeden nodded. “Okay. That’s great, Cas. Tell you what – go home, look through the brochures, and decide which schools you’d most like to apply for. Hypothetically.” She added, and Cas smiled, sort of pleased she was playing along. “To get into art programs, you usually have to submit a portfolio. You have tons of pieces, but portfolios should usually have a theme. So make a plan for a portfolio – it’s good to have one, even if you don’t end up applying anywhere. We could call it extra credit. All right?”

    Cas took a breath and nodded. “Yeah. All right.”

 

    Before Dean had even closed the front door, Sam’s voice called from the hallway.

    “Dean?” He sounded uncertain. Dean frowned.

    “Yeah. What’s up?”

    “Could you come back here for a sec?”

    Throwing his helmet on the couch, Dean walked down the hall and found Sam leaning against the doorframe of John’s bedroom. His stomach tightened.

    “What is it, Sam?” He asked, more sternly this time. Sam just looked at him, and then nodded to the bedroom. Dean leaned around the doorway and looked inside.

    The room was trashed. Broken glass from the bedside lamp littered the floor, and the few framed pictures and knick-knacks that John owned were thrown about the room. The dresser drawers were half opened, clothes spilling out of them.

    “Shit.” Dean breathed, looking around at it. “Were we robbed?”

    Sam gave a short, humorless laugh. “Really, Dean? You know this wasn’t robbers.”

    Dean pursed his lips, moving away from Sam and checking their rooms. Everything was exactly how they had left it. A sick feeling dropped in his stomach.

    “Were you here when this happened?”

    “No. I just came home and found it like this.”

    “Well… where is he?” He asked, running his hands through his hair as he paced a little in front of Sam.

    “Work, probably.” Sam shrugged, a bitter twist to his mouth. “Maybe this is just him adjusting to the new job. He doesn’t exactly handle stress well.”

    “Stress, what stress?” Dean demanded. “He got a construction job. That’s kid’s play compared to what Dad’s used to. And since when do you defend him?”

    “I’m not defending him.” Sam said. “I’m just trying to calm you down.”

    “Well, stop. I’m fine.” Dean snapped, abandoning his pacing to prove his point. He crossed his arms. “This isn’t good, though, Sam. He doesn’t usually trash things… not during the day, at least.”

    Sam didn’t say anything; just bit his lip as he looked around at John’s room.

    “Sam, I don’t think you should be coming home without me anymore. What if you would have been here? What if he decided breaking everything in his room wasn’t enough?” Dean asked, and Sam’s head snapped toward him.

    “Are you serious?” His brown eyes were wide. “Dean, nothing’s going to happen. This is just a one time thing.” 

    “Yeah, and that’s what we thought when he went on a three-day bender the Christmas after mom died.” Dean replied, and Sam’s face went blank with shock. They never talked about her.

    “I’m just saying,” Dean went on, “Maybe we should work on a buddy system. No one ends up at home alone. Are we clear?”

    Sam’s brown eyes were swimming with tears, but he looked determinedly away from his older brother. He licked his lips a little, bouncing his knee up and down.

    “Yeah.” His voice was low. “We’re clear.”

    Dean nodded, leaning against the wall opposite of John’s bedroom. Sam stood for a second longer, swallowing hard, before pushing away and disappearing down the hall. Dean heard the front door open and close, but he didn’t move.

    After that first talk with his dad, Dean had bitterly pushed all his hopes for college away. But they rose back now with a vengeance. His hands started to shake as he looked over every piece of broken glass, every old framed photo lying on the floor.

    He had to get out of here.

 

    Time began to pass. While spring was always mercurial, autumn in South Dakota wasn’t anything but punctual. Leaves steadily died and the sun began set earlier each night. Dean was relieved; summer and heat had never really worked out for him. Extra layers of clothes and chilly mornings were always more comfortable.

    Dean threw himself into his schoolwork with a sort of determination he’d never felt before. Every weeknight meant quiet hours of homework with Cas, and during the weekends he was at Bobby’s. Cas usually kept him company, sitting on the workbench while he idly scrolled through Tumblr on his phone or asked Dean endless questions about cars, even though Dean was positive his answers would always go right over Cas’ head.

    Meanwhile, Cas wondered how he’d spent so long of his life shut away. Everything about Dean made him feel raw and awake; as if before, each of his senses had been dead or maybe just going through the motions. Now he noticed every small detail: like how Dean didn’t usually laugh, but if you could coax one out of him it was a smooth, throaty sound that was so indescribably _boy_ that it made Cas ache. Like how there was a constellation of faint freckles along his neck that disappeared beneath the collar of his t-shirts. Like how for a boy who rode motorcycles and got into fistfights and worked at a garage, Dean’s hands weren’t anything but soft.

    Still, this barrage of sensation and knowledge frayed at Cas. It kept him up at night and woke him early each morning, unable to settle into his sheets and turn his mind off. Each morning he’d reluctantly take his medication because he was strangely motivated to get better. But when he wasn’t with Dean, nothing felt better. It was like being around the older Winchester had jarred Cas’ heart awake, only he hadn’t told Cas what to do with it when he wasn’t around.

    Luckily, that didn’t happen often. Between Bartholomew working doubles and John’s new job, the boys always found someway to spend their evenings together. Even if the hours were quiet; even if they didn’t do much else besides stress over homework or read silently from textbooks until their eyes were tired. Cas had a habit of always finding a way to lean against Dean. He’d settle his shoulder into Dean’s chest or drape his legs across his lap, and Dean would get so used to the extra weight that he felt dizzy whenever Cas left. Like he’d suddenly lost a limb or his sense of balance.

    When Cas wasn’t with Dean, he was drawing. And drawing for Cas meant something entirely different than it had before, because now he listened to Dean’s iPod whenever he did it.

Before, Cas’ art had been cathartic and stunted; tiny scratched lines on standard-sized paper, always shoved away in the drawers of desks before he could remember to look at them again. Now he bought paper almost taller than himself; he had to find humungous sticks of chalk pastel, otherwise they ran out too quickly in his hand.

He couldn’t quiet decide which music he liked best, but he found himself stuck on two bands called _Sleeping At Last_ and _Angels and Airwaves._ Before long, Cas found his inspiration for his portfolio – even if, technically, it was hypothetical inspiration.

    The first frost happened on a Friday in October. Not all of the leaves had hit the ground yet, but when Dean woke up to a fresh sheet of frost across his window, he knew he’d have to be putting his bike away for the winter. And that thought was enough to put him in a sour mood for the rest of the day.

    “Cas,” He said, nudging Cas’ foot so that he looked up from his chemistry textbook. “Let’s go out tonight.”

    Cas narrowed his eyes a little, but he smiled. “Okay. Where do you want to go?”

    “I don’t care. You pick.” It was the truth: Dean didn’t care where they went, because all he knew was that his bad mood had started an itch in his skin, and he didn’t want to be by himself.

    “Alright.” Cas said, closing his textbook. “I think they’re playing The Fault In Our Stars at the Rushmore theatre. I still haven’t seen it.”

    “You sure about that?” Dean raised his eyebrows. “That movie is super depressing.”

    “You’ve seen it?”

    “No. But I read the book.”

    “Wait – what? You read? And books _without_ pictures?” Cas teased. Dean smirked at him. 

    “Shut up. We can see the movie if you want – but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

    “Okay. You warned me.”

 

    That night was cold, even for October. Dean and Cas walked quickly from the theatre back out to the car, their hands stuffed into jacket pockets. Dean pulled open the driver’s door of the Skyline and Cas climbed into the passenger seat – it was sort of just assumed now that Dean drove, wherever they went.

    Shivering, Dean turned the key in the ignition and turned the heat up. Cas was rubbing his hands together, a distracted look on his face as he stared out the windshield with red eyes.

    “Dude,” Dean said softly, “I told you it was sad.”

    Cas looked over at him. “We should specify which kind of sad, from now on.” He said, his voice rasping a little. “Like, there’s bittersweet-sad and pet-death-sad. Then there’s terminal-illness-sad, which is the worst kind.”

    “So this, obviously, was the worst kind?”

    “Basically, yes.” Cas shivered. Dean watched him.

    “You look freezing.” He said, reaching over and pulling Cas’ Ravenclaw scarf a little tighter around him. Cas looked at him, his blue eyes glinting in the light of the dashboard. He reached out and grabbed Dean’s jacket collar, gently pulling him in and kissing him. The frigid air made his lips even hotter than usual.                

    “Warm me up?” Cas breathed. Dean took a breath, looking from his eyes down to his lips and back up again.

    “Is your brother home?” He asked quietly. Cas nodded sadly.

    “He doesn’t work until the morning.”

    “My old man’s gone til tomorrow.” Dean said, tilting his head a little at Cas. “We can always sneak past Sam if we have to.”

 

    Sam wasn’t home, so the two boys were able to walk past the dark living room and to Dean’s bedroom unnoticed by anyone. Cas was actually surprised that it had taken him this long to see Dean’s room – of all the times he’d been to his house, they usually stayed in the living room.

    It was small, and the walls were white. But there were posters everywhere – for bands and Marvel comics and TV shows that Cas never watched. An old guitar sat propped up in a corner, and there was a tiny desk by the window, which was littered with books and papers. His bed took up most of the room. Bones was currently curled up on top of it.

    Cas felt strange as he looked around at it. As if he were looking at some alien planet. This room was where Dean changed his clothes in the morning, where he woke up from his nightmares, where he stared at his ceiling when he couldn’t sleep. Cas sort of felt like he was looking at something he shouldn’t be allowed to see.

    “Bones,” Dean said, and the golden retriever’s ears perked up at him. “Come on, scram. Go lay on Sam’s bed for a change.”

    Groaning, Bones pulled himself up off the bed obediently. He sulked from the room, wagging his tail slowly at Cas as he passed.

    “I don’t know why he always sleeps in here.” Dean grumbled, swiping a little at the dog hairs on his blanket. “He’s not even my dog.”

    Cas smiled at Dean’s grumpiness. He knew Dean would never admit he had a soft spot for that dog.

“I can’t really blame him.” Cas said. Dean sat down on the edge of his bed and Cas walked toward him. “This room is sort of cozy. And it smells nice.”

    Dean raised an eyebrow, reaching up and wrapping his arms around Cas’ waist. Cas’ heart kicked up.

    “What does it smell like?” He asked dubiously. Cas’ cheeks reddened, but he ignored it.

    “Like you.”

    Dean narrowed his eyes a little at Cas, pulling him closer. “What do I smell like?”

    “I don’t know.” Cas’ blush deepened. “Like your shampoo and coffee and a little like the gasoline from your bike.”

    Dean laughed. “And that smells good to you?”

    Cas swallowed and nodded. Dean shook his head, but he pulled Cas even closer, until he was tipping backward and Cas was following him. He reached out his hands and braced against the soft comforter of the bed, so that he was hovering above Dean. Fighting to keep his breathing even, he leaned down until their lips melted together.

    Dean’s skin smelled like the cool night outside – like frost and wind. It made Cas shiver, and Dean pressed his fingers into Cas’ back, urging him closer. His kisses started soft, but soon they grew deeper, his teeth grazing lightly along Cas’ bottom lip.

    This was as much as the boys usually did – they’d kiss each other until they were both breathless and shaky, but then one of them would back off or they’d be interrupted. Secretly, Cas was always grateful. Not because he never wanted to do anything more, but because he wanted to _so bad_ that he didn’t really trust himself.

    Now, though, Cas didn’t think he had it in himself to stop. He wasn’t sure what it was – the emotional torture of that movie, or maybe the way the chill of the night made him crave the warmth coming from beneath Dean’s shirt. He could feel it radiating up to him, and he dipped his body lower, pressing his ribcage and hips against Dean’s. Dean groaned softly and Cas’ mind raced, wondering what other sounds Dean was capable of…

    Leaning all his weight on one hand, Cas moved the other slowly down Dean’s body, running over the planes of his chest and down his stomach. His fingers found the hem of Dean’s shirt and before he could stop himself, he slipped his hand beneath the fabric.

    Cas’ fingers brushed the hot skin of Dean’s stomach, and Dean gasped.

    “Shit,” He said, “Your hands are freezing.”

    “Sorry,” Cas breathed, pulling his fingers back a little.

    “No, keep them there.” Dean shook his head and smiled. “I’ll warm them up.”

    Cas grinned and moved his hand back, before kissing Dean again. He brushed his fingers lightly across his stomach and then around his back, feeling the small indentation of his spine and the dimples just below it. Dean shivered, but Cas’ skin was hot by then and he knew it didn’t have anything to do with the cold.

    Slowly, Dean moved his hands down Cas’ body and slipped them beneath his shirt. Cas almost jumped at the feeling of hands against the skin of his back, just because it was so unfamiliar. But once he reminded himself they were Dean’s hands, he melted into the touch, a soft sigh passing his lips.

    Dean’s fingers traced a line up Cas’ spine, then dropped again, dipping just lightly beneath the waste of Cas’ pants. Cas sucked in a breath; hunger clawed at his stomach, and before he could stop himself he took Dean’s bottom lip gently between his teeth, biting down softly. Dean’s breath hitched and his body arched up in response.

    Smoothly, Dean gathered the hem of Cas’ shirt in his hands and began to tug it off. The fire in Cas’ stomach flared in response, but an alarm was sounding in his head.

    “Wait,” He whispered roughly. Dean’s eyes opened.

    “What? Too much?” He asked, frowning a little. Cas shook his head. _No, not too much. Not enough…_

    “No,” He said, trying to gather his thoughts, “It’s just… can we turn off the light?”

    Dean’s frowned deepened, and he glanced at the bedside lamp that was casting an already dim glow around the room. “Seriously?”

    Cas blushed, but he nodded. Letting Dean take off his shirt was already risky enough – lights were a deal breaker.

    “Okay.” Dean said easily, though he still looked a little confused. Cas sat up and Dean reached to the side of the bed, flicking the light off and flooding them in complete darkness. The only light came from the moon outside the window. Cas felt his muscles relax, and then he felt Dean’s hands on his back again, pulling him down.

    Cas complied, sliding his hands down on the bed. For a moment Dean just kissed Cas, soft and reassuring, and then he tugged at his shirt again. Holding his breath a little, Cas sat up and let Dean pull the shirt off over his head. He heard the soft ruffle as it fell to the floor.

    It didn’t feel wrong – not really. Just very, very dangerous. The last time Cas had worn anything as exposing as a t-shirt had been three years ago. The cool air of the room felt alarming across his bare arms, and he prayed to God that Dean didn’t touch him there, please, just let him brush against his stomach and his back and shoulders… but not there.

    Fuck, this was the stupidest thing he’d done in a long time. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Dean sat up, his arms around Cas’ waist as he kissed the bare skin along Cas’ shoulder. Cas closed his eyes at the feeling of Dean’s lips against his skin, wanting to feel it everywhere. He needed more of this – more contact, more heat. Trembling, he reached down and began to tug at Dean’s shirt.

    Dean took one hand from around Cas’ waist and helped him, grabbing a fistful of the fabric and pulling the shirt off over his head. It joined Cas’ on the floor.

    As Dean wrapped his arms around Cas again, Cas focused on the feeling of Dean’s skin on his – against his ribs, across his stomach, pressing into his chest. He groaned a little and pulled Dean closer, and Dean sucked lightly at Cas’ neck, leaving little bruises of wet heat. Cas leaned his head back, exposing his neck to him. He could feel Dean’s eyelashes brushing against his skin and his fingers were splayed across his back.

    Dean began to kiss down Cas’ throat, and then across his collarbone and chest. Then he lifted his head again, crashing his lips into Cas’ and bringing his hands up to cradle his face. He kissed him deeply, desperately, before pulling away.

    “Tell me I should stop.” Dean said breathlessly.

    “I don’t want you to.”

    “But we should.” Dean dropped his hands and rested them against Cas’ stomach. His green eyes were tight and hungry.

    “Why?”

    “Because… I want it to feel right. I don’t want to do it in my room while my brother could come home at any second.”

    Cas pursed his lips, suddenly angry. “Has that ever stopped you before?”

    “Come on, Cas.” Dean frowned. “That’s not the point. I want things to be different with you.”

    Cas calmed his breath as he studied Dean’s face. Even in the faint light, he could see his cheeks were flushed pink and his hair was a little messed. But his eyes were hard and serious.

    “Alright.” Cas relented. “You’re right. Bad timing.”

    For a few seconds the boys just sat there as they caught their breath, Cas’ knees straddling Dean’s waist. They’d talked about this before, in hushed voices after one particular night when things had gotten too heated in the back of the Skyline. Cas was a virgin and Dean wasn’t – though he’d only been with girls. And when things happened for them, they wanted it to feel right.

    “Sex can be a bitch.” Dean had said. “It complicates things.”  
  
    Now, Cas glanced down at Dean, trying to surreptitiously pull his harms closer to him as their eyes grew more used to the dark. This seemed complicated any way you sliced it.

    Dean reached up, pulling Cas in for a gentle, calming kiss. Cas relaxed into it, feeling his heart slow and a soothing warmth spread in his stomach. Then, Dean slid his hand down Cas’ arm, his thumb pressed to the soft skin on the inside. Cas froze against Dean’s lips, horror spreading through him as he felt Dean’s thumbs graze across the scars and cuts on his skin.

    Dean’s hand paused, and his lips pulled away as he looked down. Cas tried to tug his arm closer to him, but Dean’s hand held him firm. He glanced up at Cas then looked down at his arm, turning it a little to inspect it in the near-darkness.

    Their eyes had adjusted too much. In the faint moonlight, Cas could see the familiar pale scars, along with newer cuts from last week. They were healing painfully slow.

    “Cas…” Dean said, his voice low and confused. With his other hand, he reached over and turned the light on, before looking down at Cas’ arm again.

    It looked even worse in the light. Cas swallowed. He felt sick.

    “Cas, _what the fuck?”_ Dean’s voice was louder now, and he turned Cas’ arm a little, as if looking for something to make the scratches make sense. He took Cas’ other arm, only to discover it was identical. He looked up at Cas, eyes hard. “What’s going on? What happened?”

    Cas didn’t say anything. What were you supposed to say to that? He didn’t know how to tell Dean the truth. Dean would never look at him the same.

    “It’s just…” Cas started, then stopped. He swallowed and tried again. “It’s just something I do. Or used to do, until I sort of fell off the wagon last week. I’m sorry; I know it’s messed up.”

    “You did this to yourself.” Dean said, a statement more than a question. Cas just looked at him.

    “I… It’s how I deal with things, sometimes. But I’m getting better. I just had a bad night, that’s all.” Cas said. He was surprised at how controlled his voice sounded, even if it was shaking a little. Dean looked down at his arms again.

    “This is why you see Bela, isn’t it?” He asked.

    “Part of it.” Cas said.

    “What’s the other part?”

    Cas paused, searching Dean’s face before answering. “I have a lot of problems with anxiety. Ever since I was a kid.”

    “Anxiety about what?” Dean asked quietly.

    Cas let out a shaky breath. “Everything.”  

    He expected Dean to maybe laugh or even question him, because it didn’t sound like a logical answer. But he didn’t. His green eyes just softened, his eyebrows knitting together a little, and Cas realized it looked like maybe he understood.

    “How long have you been doing this?” Dean asked, squeezing Cas’ arm gently.

    “I don’t know.” Cas swallowed. “Years.”

    Dean took a breath, pressing his lips together.

    “Like I said,” Cas shifted uncomfortably, “I know it’s messed up.”

    “I didn’t say that.” Dean shook his head. “Everybody has their own ways of dealing with shit.”

    “But this isn’t dealing. That’s the problem.” Cas argued.

    Dean looked at him, narrowing his eyes. “What made you fall off the wagon last week?”

    Cas dropped his eyes, and he crawled off of Dean. Dean let him. Cas’ body felt cold without him, but he suddenly felt like he didn’t deserve the warmth.

    “I’m not sure.” He admitted. “I was just stressed about school and my portfolio and before I knew it, it was happening before I could stop myself.”

    “Why didn’t you call me? I could have stopped you.”

    Cas frowned at him, his voice sharp. “I didn’t want you to know this about me. It’s not exactly my greatest quality.”

    “So what?” Dean demanded. “I’ve done shit, too. Hell I’ve probably made more mistakes than you have.”

    “No, mistakes are fucking up once or twice and then moving on. Habitually hurting yourself isn’t a mistake, it’s...” Cas’ voice trailed off, lost in bitterness.

    “What?” Dean asked.

    “It’s not… right. Not what somebody looks for in another person. So I was just hoping that you’d never have to know.”

    “So you were just going to hide it this whole time? Wear long sleeves for the rest of your life?”

    “It sounds stupid when you say it like that.”

    “Stupid? No. Unrealistic – yes.”

    Cas fell quiet, and Dean’s jaw tensed, watching the way his blue eyes grew steadily sadder. “Look, I get it – this is hard to talk about.” Dean said. “But just… don’t hide stuff like this, okay? I can handle it. We’ll work it out.”

    Cas swallowed. He couldn’t imagine himself wanting to talk about this, ever again. But still, he nodded, staring down at the soft fabric of the blankets. Dean leaned forward and took Cas’ chin gently in his hand, tilting his head up and kissing him softly.

    Dean’s other hand reached out, his fingers lightly touching Cas’ wrist. Cas pulled away instinctively, feeling his shoulders stoop a little as he attempted to cave in around himself – to put up walls and lockdown. But Dean just ran his hand up Cas’ arm, slow and soft, his fingers lightly brushing against skin that turned from unmarked to scarred and back again. Cas felt his muscles slowly unlock and he leaned into Dean, breathing in the smell of him, grounding himself in the feeling of his hand cupping his face. He relaxed his arms, not quite exposing them, but no longer pulling them away, either.

 

    For a long time, this was all the boys did. It was as if Dean was rebuilding Cas with each kiss, and he took his time; Cas was still trembling a little in his hands, and though Dean wanted to hold him as close as their bodies allowed and demand that Cas _never do this again; never even think about doing this again,_ he knew that he couldn’t. Demands weren’t what Cas needed.

    But then, he had no idea what Cas needed. All he knew was that with each brush of lips and soft touch, the boy’s breath would come a little easier and his body leaned toward Dean’s again. It seemed to be working, so Dean kept doing it.

    Before long, Cas’ lips were rougher and more insistent, and he reached up a hand to bury his fingers in Dean’s hair. Dean smiled, his bruised heart swelling in triumph. He was about to pull Cas closer when the sound of keys in the front door made both boys freeze.

    Cas’ blue eyes were wide as he looked at Dean, and his cheeks were flushed pink.

    “Don’t worry,” Dean whispered, “It’s just Sam. My dad’s gone til tomorrow, remember?”

    “Still. If Sam catches us, won’t that be just a bit awkward?”

    “Then we won’t let him catch us.” Dean said, hopping quietly off the bed and shutting the door. Cas bit his lip, watching him.

    “I don’t know.” He said uncertainly. Dean climbed back on the bed and sat across from him. “Maybe I should just go; I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

    “Don’t go.” Dean said, reaching out and taking Cas’ hand. “I won’t get in trouble, I swear. Just…” Dean paused, looking down at their hands. “Stay here with me tonight.”

    Cas’ blue eyed widened. “Stay here?”

    “We won’t do anything.” Dean said hurriedly, “But my dad’s not home, and you’re already here. And I just – I really want you to stay.”

    Dean looked up at Cas and found those blue eyes watching him intently. “When will your dad get home tomorrow?”

    “Sometime in the afternoon.”

    Cas pursed his lips, but there was definitely longing in his eyes. Out in the hallway, there was the sound of muffled footsteps, but nothing more.

    “Okay. I’ll stay.” Cas relented. “But only if you promise to wake me up and kick me out before your dad gets home.”

    Dean grinned. “I promise.”

    Cas smiled back at him, but he was pulling his arms closer again; Dean could practically feel him getting farther away. He looked at Cas sadly, suspecting this had all been enough for Cas for one night. _Baby steps,_ he thought to himself.

    “Do you want your shirt back?” He asked quietly. Cas nodded, not meeting Dean’s gaze. Dean leaned over the bed and grabbed their shirts, handing Cas his long-sleeved one before pulling his own t-shirt over his head. Once Cas tugged the sleeves down past his arms, gathering the fabric a little in his hands, the boy visibly relaxed.

    “Come here,” Dean whispered, reaching out for Cas. Cas readily obeyed, letting Dean pull him down onto the soft mattress. Despite the chill outside, Dean’s room was warm, so they didn’t bother with the blankets. Cas just pressed against Dean’s front, his breath playing across his skin as Dean wrapped his arms around him.

    It took only minutes until Cas was asleep, but Dean lied awake for longer. His insides hurt, as if he’d been kicked hard in the gut; every time he closed his eyes he saw those marks on Cas’ skin, so he kept his eyes open. His mind was buzzing with questions: _what happens now? How do I fix this?_ But he didn’t have any answers, so he just tightened his hold around him, committing everything about Cas to memory in preparation for when he’d have to let go.

 


	11. For A Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks guys for all the nice comments, they make me so happy <3
> 
> TW for more talk about Dean's substance abuse. I feel like this chapter was a little dialogue-heavy (that could be just me) but things pick up speed after this. 
> 
> I've been obsessed with Amy Stroup's "This Could Kill Me" for approximately four weeks, and it sort of shows in the last bit of the chapter. I recommend giving it a listen if you haven't heard it :)

 

    Over the next few weeks, it started snowing, right on queue. Dean couldn’t remember a Halloween where there wasn’t snow on the ground, and it looked like this year would be no different.

    He’d always liked winter, but he liked it even more this year, because it seemed that snow agreed with Cas. For the entire walk from the car to the school, Dean watched the tiny white flakes settling in Cas’s dark hair and on his eyelashes. The cold made his cheeks and nose faintly pink, and Cas shivered as he pulled his grey pea coat tighter around himself. Dean bit his lip, thinking of a dozen different ways to warm Cas up, before lamenting that none of them were appropriate for school.

    Once they ducked into the warmth of the building, Cas shook his head a little, sending droplets of water and snow onto the ground. Dean opened his mouth, about to say something about Cas resembling a small black puppy, when a figure out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

    Two students were on either side of the hallway, erecting a giant banner above their heads. Dean immediately recognized Anna, standing on a stool and holding one end of the banner, but Dean stopped when he saw who was standing flat-footed and holding the other.

    “Sam?” Dean frowned. “What are you doing?”

    Sam looked over his shoulder, his face splitting into a bright smile. “Hey Dean. I’m helping Anna put up our banner.”

    “ _Our_ banner?” Dean repeated dumbly, looking up at the words. It read _The Rocky Horror Halloween Dance_ in ghoulish letters, and there was a remarkably well-done sketch of Dr. Frankenfurter’s face below it. Cas had stopped beside Dean, his eyes wide and his mouth open a little as he stared at the banner.

    “Yeah.” Anna said, grinning at Sam as she taped the banner to the wall. “The GSA is putting on the Halloween dance this year.”

    “The GSA – _you’re_ in the Gay-Straight Alliance?” Dean demanded of Sam.

    “Yeah, I thought it would be a good idea.” Sam answered cheerfully, taping his own end. “Why? Is that a problem?”

    Dean paused, his mouth hanging open as he tried to think of a reason to say _damn right, that’s a problem!_ But he couldn’t think of one. He just wasn’t used to being Sam’s reason for being in a GSA.

    “I guess not.” Dean said darkly, though he eyed the banner warily. Cas tilted his head at it.

    “Anna, did you draw Dr. Frankenfurter?” He asked.

    “Yeah – is he alright? The lips were giving me problems, but I think it worked out okay.”

    “It looks great.” Cas said truthfully.

    Sam dropped his hands and stepped back to inspect his handiwork. The banner was a little high on his side, but Dean didn’t say anything.

    “So,” Sam said, turning to Dean and Cas, “Are you guys coming?”

    “To what?” Dean asked stupidly.

    “The dance. Duh.” Anna replied, stepping down from the stool.

    “I don’t dance.” Dean said automatically.

    “Neither do I.” Cas agreed, a look of pure horror on his face. Sam raised his eyebrows, glancing between Dean and Cas. He looked like he was about to argue, but then thought better of it.

    “Okay, then. There’s an after party – come to that instead.”

    “I don’t do parties.” Dean shook his head. “Not anymore.”

    “We’ll hide the alcohol from you.” Sam said. “And there’ll be candy.”

    Dean paused as he considered this. “Maybe.”

 

    The snow was falling heavier at lunch. Dean and Cas opted out of the noisy cafeteria, holing themselves away in a back corner of the library instead. Dean was working on his calculus homework, his fingers punching numbers into a calculator, but Cas couldn’t focus on anything. He just looked out the window beside them, watching the huge snowflakes fall listlessly to the ground.

    “Dean?” He asked suddenly, his voice humming in the quiet of the library. Dean glanced up at him.

    “Yeah?”

    “Why did Sam say he’d hide the alcohol from you?” Cas turned to him, and Dean met his gaze levelly. He put his pencil down.

    “Because,” Dean said, “I have a problem with drinking. I thought you knew that about me.”

    Cas frowned slightly. “We’ve never talked about it before.”

    “Yeah, but,” Dean snorted softly, looking around at a few of the other students in the library, “Everybody knows that about me. It’s kind of my MO. At least it used to be.”

    “I didn’t really know about the drinking.” Cas said, and before he could stop himself he added, “I just thought you had a problem with drugs.”

    Dean looked at Cas sharply. “How do you know that?”

    “Isn’t that a part of your MO too?” Cas narrowed his eyes at him.

    “Well, yeah, but – I thought you didn’t know about that part.” Dean admitted. “Otherwise why would you have agreed to go out with me?”

    “I did know; I just didn’t care.”

    “Well why not?”

    “Because who am I to judge? Like you said, we all do stupid shit in order to feel better.”

    Dean was quiet, his green eyes searching Cas’ face as he considered this.

    “Dean,” Cas said cautiously, “We don’t have to go to the party if you don’t want to. I mean, if it’ll make you feel better… we can just do something by ourselves. Something quiet.”

    Dean took a breath, his eyes softening. “No, it’s alright. I’ll be fine. Besides – how lame would it be to stay in on Halloween? It’s the best freakin’ holiday there is, in my opinion.”

    Cas smiled. “You realize you’ll have to dress up, right?”

    “Dude, I am the _king_ of minimal effort costumes. I have a Batman t-shirt that’s been waiting for this very occasion. And you can just go as Harry Potter or something.”

    Dean had been teasing, but Cas’ face paled in distress. “All the stuff I own is Ravenclaw, though. I don’t have any Gryffindor things.” He said miserably, and Dean sighed, dropping his face into his hands.

 

    The party on Halloween night was at Charlie’s house. Charlie’s adoptive parents lived in a mini-mansion, just a few blocks away from Cas. The ceilings weren’t as high and there were only two floors, but by the time Dean and Cas showed up, it was packed from wall to wall with kids. Having just come from the dance, everyone was in costumes, and mostly everyone was already drunk. It was loud and it was hectic and the air smelled like beer.

    Surprisingly, Dean took it in stride. It helped that parties could be decently distracting. While the rest of the school got ridiculously hammered, he and Cas stuck with a small group of people in a back room that was lined with bookcases and had a pool table in the middle. Jo, being a closet pool hustler, lost no time in challenging him and Cas to a game against her and Garth.

    Within an hour, Dean and Cas were up fifty bucks.

    “I gotta say, I never pegged you as a pool shark, Cas.” Jo said, frowning as Cas sank another eight ball. Garth grimaced and dug another twenty out of his pocket.

    “My brother Gabe taught me.” Cas shrugged, straightening and leaning on his pool stick. He smiled at Dean and Dean involuntarily licked his lips, before looking away hurriedly.

    Just then, Sam came in, handing Dean a red plastic cup.

    “Just Coke.” He said in his ear, raising his voice to be heard above the music pounding in from the front room. Dean took the cup gratefully.

    “Thanks.”

    “By the way,” Sam spoke to him and Cas now, “someone should keep an eye on Charlie. I think she should be cut off soon.”

    Cas frowned. “Where’s Anna?”

    Sam shrugged. Just then, Charlie appeared behind Sam, her red hair wild and her eyes bright. When she saw Dean and Cas her face split into an ecstatic grin, and she rushed forward, pulling them both in for a hug and almost knocking their heads together.

    “Jesus, I _so_ didn’t think you were going to come!” She said, stepping back. Dean looked down at her costume.

    “Are you-?” He started, looking at the blue, red and white jumpsuit.

    “Captain America?” Charlie finished, slurring a little. “Yeah. It would be more obvious if I had my shield, but someone stole it. And by someone I mean Ash. Where’s your costume, Winchester?”

    Dean smirked, gesturing to his black t-shirt with the bat symbol on it. Charlie raised an eyebrow.

    “That’s it?”

    “I don’t do tights.”

    “Your loss.” She shrugged. “You look cute, Cas.”

    Cas blushed furiously, looking down at his rather simple costume: grey sweater vest, white collared shirt, and a blue Ravenclaw tie.

    “Thanks.” He muttered, smiling sheepishly at her. “Have you seen Anna?”

    “Said she wasn’t feeling well. Went upstairs to get some air, or something.” Charlie said.  Cas frowned.

    “Maybe I should check on her. She doesn’t hold her alcohol well.” He looked over at Dean uncertainly.

    “Go for it.” Dean said, trying a reassuring smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”

    Cas hesitated, before nodding and pushing past Charlie.

    Suddenly, something solid hit Dean’s back and he stumbled forward. Arms were wrapped around him from behind, slapping his chest.

    “Dean Winchester!” Ash’s voice yelled in his ear. “In the flesh! I can’t believe it, man, I thought I was done seeing you at shindigs.”

    Dean smiled thinly, clapping Ash’s hands before Ash let go and stepped in front of him. He was wearing his own clothes, but there was a hat on his head that said _Wayne’s World_ on the front.

   “Come on, Ash, you can’t get rid of me that easily.” Dean replied.

    “Don’t I know it.” Ash chuckled, before reaching out and clapping Dean on the shoulder. “Man, you look wound up. You need to relax, man! Have a beer!”

    Dean flexed his jaw and shook his head. “I can’t. I’m trying the sober thing again.”

    “Oh shit, I forgot.” Ash said, bring a hand up to his chin. “Well, how about some air, then? I need a smoke anyways.”

    Dean looked around, catching a glimpse of Cas as he jogged up a set of stairs. He turned to Ash.

    “Sure. But just for a minute.”

    “Hey, man, you can even time me.” Ash said. He put an unlit joint between his lips and wrapped an arm around Dean’s shoulders, steering him out of the room.

    “HEY, Ash!” Charlie called after them. “I want my shield back sometime, you grease monkey!”

    “All in good time, Red!” Ash called back.

 

    Even the walls of the upstairs seemed to be vibrating. Cas maneuvered around the people perched on the stairs, the words of “Boom Clap” becoming a little more muffled as he reached the top.

    He’d only been to Charlie’s house a handful of times, but he still knew where everything was. He cautiously pushed open the bathroom door, to discover it was empty. Then he went to Charlie’s room and peaked his head through the doorway, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dark.

    Anna was sprawled across the covers, Bucky Barnes costume askew as she lay flat on her stomach with her red hair thrown across the blankets.

    “Anna?” Cas whispered.

    “Mmm?” She mumbled incoherently.

    “Are you alright?”

    “Sick.” She slurred. “Hhng. No stomach. Sleeping.”

    Cas sighed. “Do you need a bucket or anything?”

    “Nope. Done puking.” Anna frowned, her eyes still closed. “My mouth tastes gross.”

    “Well, that’s nice.” Cas rolled his eyes. “I’m going to close the door, okay? You just sleep it off.”

    “Okie dokes. Night, Cas.”

    “Night, Anna.” Cas shook his head, stepping out of the room and closing the door firmly.

    He made his way back down to the main floor. It seemed even more crowded than before, and he pushed his way past villains and Disney princesses and superheroes, until someone grabbed his arm and stopped him.

    “Cas!” Charlie yelled above the music, swaying a little in front of Cas. “Did you find Anna?”

    He nodded. “She’s passed out in your room. Just sleeping it off.”

    “Okay, good. She drank _way_ too much.”

    “How about you?” Cas frowned at her. “You look like maybe you’ve had enough.”

    “Are you kidding? This is _my party!_ I have to set the pace!”

    “Maybe.” His jaw clenched. “But how about a glass of water? Couldn’t hurt.”

    Charlie rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. If it’ll make you feel better.”

    “It will.” Cas said, before turning and making his way to Charlie’s kitchen.

 

    Dean never truly believed that marijuana was a bad drug. After all, it wasn’t even addictive and it did less harm to your body than alcohol – and alcohol was perfectly legal. It was all a goddamn conspiracy.

    Still. For him, weed was always the push that opened the floodgates. And if he was doing this sober thing, he was doing it all the way, or not at all. Go big or go home. So when Ash took a long pull from his joint and then offered it to Dean, he shook his head.

    “Shit,” Ash said, blowing a thick coil of smoke out of his mouth. “You really have gone straight, haven’t you?”

    Dean raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, not _technically,_ I haven’t.”

    Ash laughed then started to cough, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. “Fuck, man, I didn’t mean it like that.”

    Dean grinned. “I know. I just like messing with you. But yeah, I’m serious – sober as a judge.”

    “Well, good for you, man. I admire that.” Ash said sincerely, glancing down at the joint pressed between his fingers. Dean clenched his jaw and glanced up at the sky, trying not to get too lost in the enticing smell of it.

    “How’s that going, by the way?” Ash asked, looking up at Dean. “You and Cas?”

    Dean took a breath, sort of surprised Ash was even asking. “Good. Really good, actually. Don’t know how I pulled it off – he’s way too good for me.”

    Ash chuckled, raising the joint to his lips again. “Same old Dean Winchester – self-deprecating. Self-loathing.” He inhaled deeply. “Masochistic.”

    Dean glanced at him. “Yeah, well… maybe I’m working on it.”

    “Good to hear.” More smoke curled out Ash’s mouth as he spoke. “How’s your old man taking it?”

    “Me and Cas?” Dean raised his eyebrows at Ash. “He has no idea. I haven’t told him yet.”

    “Smart move, I guess.” Ash nodded. “Your daddy – I know he’s a war hero and all, but dude, he scares the shit out of me.”

    Dean smiled thinly. “You and me both.”

 

    Charlie’s kitchen was littered with plastic cups and half-empty bottles. A group of kids sat at a huge dining table, playing a game of quarters. The tall kitchen windows were cracked open, trying to entice some cool October air into the stuffy house, but it wasn’t working very well.

    Charlie leaned against the kitchen counter and looked around.

    “This is going to be a bitch to clean up tomorrow.” She muttered, watching as Cas grabbed a clean glass from the cupboard. As he did, he glanced out the kitchen windows, to where a few figures stood on the back porch.

    Dean was standing beside Ash, his breath rising a little in the night air. Ash had a joint between his fingers but Dean’s hands were stuffed in his pockets, as if to make sure he didn’t accidentally reach out and grab it.

    Cas took a moment just to look at him: that black Batman t-shirt, the fitted black jeans, the ratty Chuck Taylors on his feet. His arms were tensed against the cold, making his tendons and muscles stand out, and his green eyes were dark as he looked at Ash. There was a bit of a bitter tilt to his mouth.

    Some of the other kids who were outside smoking would periodically glance over at him, their eyes wary, and Cas realized that to lots of people, Dean looked pretty intimidating. He glanced down at his own clothes – expensive sweater vest, preppy white shirt, nerdy tie – and wondered how in the hell the two of them made sense.

    Cas shook his head a little, busying himself with filling the glass with water and handing it to Charlie. She took it gratefully.

    “Thanks, Cas.” She smiled at him. “You’re a good egg.”

    Cas smiled back, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter across from her.

    A tall figure stumbled into the kitchen then, dressed in one of those cheap police officer costumes. Cas didn’t even recognize him at first, but when he turned and straightened, Cas’ blood went cold.

    “Castiel!” Tyson Brady’s face split into a dangerous grin. “Cassie, baby! I was hoping I’d see you here.”

    Cas glared at him, his jaw flexing. Charlie looked between the boys with wary eyes. 

    “And why is that?” Cas asked coldly. He considered flat-out ignoring him, but that never worked with people like Tyson.

    “I’m wanting to set things straight.” He slurred. Cas could still see faint bruises beneath his eyes from his broken nose. “I never meant any harm. You know? I was just curious about you and Winchester, is all.”

    “Get lost, Brady.” Charlie snarled at him. “This is my house, and I am not against kicking you out.”

    “It’s fine.” Cas gritted out, eyes locked on Tyson.

    “Just give me a sec,” Tyson held a finger up to Charlie and stepped toward Cas. Cas dropped his arms, standing up straighter.

    “See, I’m still pretty pissed that your dumbass boyfriend broke my nose.” He scowled down at Cas. Cas lifted his chin. “So now, I’m just looking to even the score. But I don’t know whose pretty face I want to mess up more – yours, or Winchester’s.”

    Cas’ jaw flexed, and his fingers twitched. Gabriel’s instructions for throwing a good punch ran through his mind: _keep your thumb outside your fist, close your fingers only before you make contact, block with your other hand…_

 

    Ash was describing a new kind of pot hybrid he was growing, when there was suddenly a riot of noise coming through the kitchen windows. Dean’s head snapped around to see a group of people swarming in from different directions, and shouts and yelling as the music was ground to stop.

    Ash frowned. “Do we have a brouhaha on our hands?”

    Dean squinted, eyes picking out different faces in the crowd. Then, they landed on two boys being pulled apart – Tyson, lips twisted in a scowl, and Cas, blue eyes bright with rage.

    “ _Shit_.” Dean snarled, pulling open the back door and rushing to the kitchen. Ash was close behind.

    Garth and Jo were holding Cas back, and Dean noticed there was a thin line of blood dripping from his lip. Sam and a few other sophomores were holding Tyson, and Dean could see a new bruise blossoming around his left eye. Everyone was yelling, but Cas’ lips were pressed shut as he glared at Tyson.

    “Hey,” Dean growled, placing a firm hand on Cas’ shoulder. Garth and Jo let him go. “ _Cas_. Look at me.”

    Cas turned his eyes to Dean.  “Dean, he-”

    “I know. But you gotta chill, all right? Jesus.” Dean looked over his shoulder to where Tyson was still lunging at Cas. “Get him out of here. Now.” He yelled above the noise. A few more people pressed themselves against Tyson, and he was forcibly removed from the kitchen.

    Dean looked back at Cas. His blue eyes followed Tyson, and only when he disappeared did he relax. The crowd started to filter out from the kitchen and the music kicked back up.

    “Sorry.” Cas muttered, glancing at Dean and then at Charlie. “I kind of just… sorry.”

    “It’s alright.” Charlie said, “I would have done the same thing, honestly. Except I probably would have broken my hand in the process. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make sure Mr. All-Braun-No-Brain gets escorted off my property.”

    Charlie rolled her eyes at them, before disappearing through the kitchen doorway. Dean turned his eyes to Cas, who reached up and touched his lip. He pulled it away and looked at the blood on his finger. Dean narrowed his eyes at him and sighed, taking in the cut on his lip and a red mark on his left cheek.

    “What the hell, Cas?” He asked softly, voice tired.

    “I’m sorry.” Cas said again. “I just felt like I had to do it. Right of passage, or something like that.”

    Dean pursed his lips. “Yeah. Guess that makes sense.”

    Cas just looked down at his hand, balling it into a fist and then stretching it out again. The knuckles looked bruised, but nowhere near as bad as Dean’s hand had been. Gently, Dean reached out and took the hand in his.

    “Come on.” He said, pulling Cas from the kitchen. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

 

    Bartholomew was working double graveyard shifts, which was the best kind of luck because John had been showing up at the Winchester’s at all hours of the night. It was just past two in the morning when Cas flicked on the light of his bathroom, Dean close behind him.

    Dean leaned against the doorframe as Cas opened the medicine cabinet and inspected the contents. His head was starting to pound and his lip was smarting. Somehow, Tyson had managed to cut into the skin pretty deep. Cas considered the possibility he had been wearing some kind of class ring.

    Behind him, Dean let out an audible sigh. “Sit.” He said suddenly. Cas turned around.

    “What?”

    Dean pushed away from the door, nodding to the bathroom counter. “Sit. I can do this.”

    Cas hesitated, before hopping up on the bathroom counter. Dean reached around him and turned on the sink. “Getting in fights is no fun if you have to lick your own wounds. Trust me.”

    Cas smiled thinly. “Don’t worry, I don’t think I’m going to make a habit of it.”

    “Good.” Dean said shortly, but his mouth twitched up. He ran a cloth under the warm water and then brought it up to the cut in Cas’ lip. “So what did he say this time?”

    Cas sucked in a breath when the cloth touched his lip, the pain smarting. “Nothing, really. He said he wanted to even the score. I was just defending myself.”

    Dean’s eyes flicked up to his. “Oh. Well… self-defense… can’t really get mad at that.”

    Cas didn’t say anything, but just sat still as Dean carefully wiped the blood from his lip. He was only inches away, and Cas could see the faint freckles across his nose and cheeks. He smelled a little like smoke and like the snow outside.

    Stepping back, Dean tossed the cloth into the sink. Then he took Cas’ chin in his hand, turning his head slightly as he inspected the damage.

    “There’s not much you can do about lip cuts.” He said. “Besides just let them heal. Your eye might be a little bruised, but not much.”

    Dean dropped his hand and moved to the medicine cabinet, pulling out a bottle of Advil. He handed it to Cas.

    “You’re probably gunna want two or three of these. Post-fight headaches are a bitch.”

    Cas took the bottle, offering Dean a small smile. “Thanks.”

    Dean crossed his arms, watching as Cas poured a few pills out onto his hand and dry swallowed them.  “Do you want some ice for your face or anything?”

    Cas shook his head, setting the bottle down on the counter beside him. “No, it’s alright. He didn’t hit me that hard.”

    Dean looked at Cas for a moment, searching his face as he pursed his lips. “You look exhausted.”

    “I feel like I haven’t slept in days, to be honest.” Cas admitted. Dean nodded his head toward Cas’ room, and Cas hopped down from the sink and followed.

    In his room, Cas took a quick glance around. The pieces he was currently working on were tucked away behind his desk, and he breathed a small sigh of relief. He wasn’t ready for anyone to see them yet – especially Dean.

    Dean collapsed onto Cas’ bed, but Cas walked over to his bedside table. He’d bought a dock for the iPod Dean gave him, and now it sat where the record player used to be. Lately he’d been having trouble falling asleep to silence, so he most often put on music during the night. Now, he scrolled through and picked one of the playlists he’d made, put it on shuffle, and pressed it onto the dock. Music started to play from the speakers.

    Dean sighed, staring up at the ceiling, “Of all the songs that are on that iPod, you seem to only listen to the sad ones.”

    “I like sad music.” Cas said defensively, pulling his Ravenclaw tie from around his neck and tossing it aside. “Besides, Angels and Airwaves isn’t sad, and they’re my favourite band on that iPod.”

    “The exception to the rule.” Dean muttered.

    Quickly, Cas pulled off the sweater vest and collared shirt, before putting on one of Dean’s shirts that he had commandeered – an old black one with a Rolling Stones logo on the front. It was one of the few long-sleeved shirts that Dean owned.

    Cas climbed onto the bed beside Dean, crossing his legs beneath him, and Dean sat up, mirroring him. He tilted his head, looking at the red mark around Cas’ eye. He reached up and gently touched his fingers to the edge of it. The pressure sent a small ache through Cas’ bones, but he leaned into Dean’s hand.

    “You look sad.” Dean said quietly.

    “I sort of am, I guess.” Cas responded.

    “Why?”

    “Because. I don’t want to be here anymore… in this school, in this city. I hate it here. But you’re here, so I don’t want to think about leaving.”

    “You’re going to have to, eventually.” Dean dropped his hand from Cas’ face, settling it in his lap. “Either way, you’re going to college. And unless I get a scholarship, I’m staying here.”

    “You’ll get a scholarship.” Cas said with conviction. “You’re the smartest person I know.”

    “That’s bullshit.” Dean smiled. “Everyone in your family is a genius. But thanks all the same.”

    Cas smiled thinly, looking down at his hands. Then he asked cautiously, “What if… we went to the same college?”

    Dean raised his eyebrows. “Are you kidding? That would be awesome. But let’s face it, Cas – I’m not getting into Princeton. Scholarship or no scholarship.”

    “Not Princeton.” Cas shook his head. “Somewhere else.”

    “You’re not going to Princeton?” Dean looked confused. Cas rubbed the back of his neck.

    “Let’s say that maybe that hypothetical portfolio turned out to be… not so hypothetical.”

    Dean grinned. “I knew it.”

    “Nothing’s for sure, yet.” Cas said sternly. “But Mrs. Braeden is going to help me send out applications to other places. Places not so… Ivy League, you know? So I was thinking, maybe you could apply to the same places. I mean, if you want to go to the same college as me.”

    Dean narrowed his eyes at him. “You think I might _not_ want to?”

    Cas fidgeted uncomfortably. “All I’m saying is, college is a long way off… things might change by then.” 

    “I don’t want things to change.” Dean said, his jaw flexing. “Do you?”

    Cas shook his head, raising his eyes to meet Dean’s. “No. I really don’t.”

    “Then that settles it.” Dean said, and Cas smiled, his muscles relaxing a little.  “So… where do you want to go?”

    Cas shifted nervously. “I don’t know. I’ve always wanted to go somewhere on the coast, but I’m not sure where, exactly. California seems too hot. But… there’s this visual arts school in New York. And I thought that could be cool. I’d go there, and you could go to NYU.”

    “New York?” Dean raised his eyebrows. “Dude, I would love that. That place is an insomniac’s dream – I’d never be bored.”

    Cas grinned at him. “Exactly. And we could go to music shows all the time, and they have tons of art galleries there, not just museums with cowboys and pioneers in them.”

    Dean laughed softly. He leaned forward, planting a soft kiss on the side of Cas’ mouth, avoiding the cut on his lip. He reached up and thumbed the soft fabric of the Rolling Stones t-shirt.

    “This looks good on you.” He said, and Cas blushed. “Can I wear one of yours?”

    “I don’t have any bad-ass vintage shirts.” Cas said apologetically.

    “I don’t care.” Dean smiled crookedly, and Cas hesitated, before getting up and walking over to his dresser. He rummaged through one of the drawers, before pulling out a faded grey t-shirt. He climbed back onto the bed and gave it to Dean.

    Dean picked it up. On the front was a white logo – it said _Outsiders Apparel: Portland, OR,_ and there was a graphic of a mountain behind it.

    “That’s where we lived, before we moved here.” Cas explained. “It used to be my favourite shirt. But I just haven’t really been able to wear it for a while… short sleeves, and everything.”

    Dean’s eyes softened sadly, but he smiled. “Thanks, Cas.”

    Cas watched as Dean pulled his Batman shirt off over his head, and put the t-shirt on. It fit him perfectly – it had always been just a tad too big on Cas – and the faded grey material somehow worked to bring out his green eyes.

    Cas swallowed and looked away, but Dean leaned forward and kissed his mouth softly. His lip smarted, and he flinched a little, but he leaned into Dean gratefully. As always, having Dean around was warm and soothing, and Cas felt the knot that had been snagged in his stomach begin to loosen.

    Dean leaned forward more, and Cas leaned back, untangling his legs from beneath him and bracing his hands back on the bed. Dean moved his mouth down to Cas’ neck, his hands bracing on either side of Cas’s waist. He reached one hand up, lightly trailing his fingers across the waistband of Cas’ pants.

    “Not planning on sleeping in jeans, are you?” Dean whispered, his lips humming against Cas’ throat, and Cas shook his head wordlessly. Deftly, Dean worked open the button on Cas’ pants. Then he sat up, sliding the jeans down past Cas’ hips and pulling them off his legs.

    Cas’ heart was hammering, and he watched Dean toss his pants to the floor. Dean grinned at Cas, leaning forward again as he continued kissing him: along his throat, up to his chin, across the line of his jaw, always careful to avoid the cut on his lip. His hand reached up and lightly traced a line from Cas’ thigh up to his hip, brushing against the material of his boxers, and Cas shivered.

    Hands trembling, Cas found the button on Dean’s black jeans, fumbling a little as he undid them. Dean’s breath was hot against the skin of Cas’ neck, and he had to focus on gathering his thoughts before pushing the jeans past Dean’s hips.

    Dean leaned back and helped Cas pull them off, and then he pressed down against Cas again. Cas’ heart raced when he felt Dean’s bare legs brushing against his, and he groaned a little when Dean ground himself down onto him. He dragged Dean closer to him, kissing him deeply despite the protesting pain in his lip and dull throbbing in his head.

    “Easy, tiger.” Dean laughed breathily, pulling away a little to look at him. “You’re going to make your lip start bleeding again.”

    “So what?” Cas frowned, blue eyes flashing stubbornly, but his head had started to pound harder now.

    “So, you should probably take it easy, that’s what. You’re starting to look a little pale.” Dean rolled onto his side, and Cas let his hands fall onto the bed in defeat. Sighing, he turned toward Dean.

    “So you’re telling me we’re just going to sleep tonight? That’s it?” He asked grumpily.

    Dean grinned wolfishly. “Sorry, did I get you all riled up for nothing?”

    “Sort of.” Cas admitted sheepishly.

    “Tell you what,” Dean scooted closer to him, tugging a little at the fabric of shirt. He brushed his lips against Cas’. “Another night, when you aren’t so worse for wear, I’ll make it up to you.”

    Heat flushed up Cas’ spine, and he pressed his mouth softly to Dean’s.

    “Deal.”

    Dean smiled at Cas, before reaching behind him to turn off Cas’ bedside light. Dull pain had started to radiate through Cas’ skull, and though his skin was still humming from Dean’s touch, he felt sleep tugging at him.

He began to close his eyes, but they snapped open when a clattering sound resounded through the room. Dean’s hand had knocked something off of the bedside table, and he swore under his breath, moving away from Cas so he could pick it up off the floor.

Dean raised his hand, fist closed around a small orange bottle. Cas’ heart sped up uncomfortably.

“What…?” Dean mumbled, turning the bottle a little in his hands to look at the label. “ _Bupropion_.” He read, lying back down and turning to face Cas again. “Cas, what are these?”

Dread filling his stomach, Cas reached out and took the bottle, closing his hand around it. “They’re Wellbutrin. Antidepressants.” He said flatly. “My brother’s idea…”

Dean was quiet, looking at the miserable expression on Cas’ face. “Are they working?” He asked softly.

“I don’t know.” Cas glanced up at him. “I mean, I don’t feel as anxious as I usually do. I have more good days now. So… I guess so?”

    “Then that’s good.” Dean said sincerely. “You don’t have to feel bad about them, or anything.”

    “I know.” Cas dropped the bottle on the floor beside him, the pills rattling a little. “Just… not everyone understands that. It’s just not something I like to talk about. People might think I’m crazy, or something…”

    “Hey, sanity is underrated.” Dean’s voice was quiet. “Besides, I was on medication once, too.”

    Cas looked at him sharply. “You were?”

    “Yeah,” Dean dropped his gaze, licking his lips a little in discomfort. “It’s, uh… it’s a long story.”

    “I’m a good listener.” Cas replied softly, and Dean searched his face, before taking a breath. Then he started talking.

 

 

    Dean hadn’t meant to tell Cas this story – at least, not tonight. But he knew so much about Cas, so many difficult, personal things… he suddenly wanted Cas to know the difficult, personal things about him, too.

    “Well, remember when I said I had bad dreams?” Dean asked, and Cas nodded. “That’s how it started, I guess. I must have been about… six? Seven years old? It was a few years after my mom died. Anyways it got so bad that I would end up going pretty long without sleep – three, sometimes four days. I was too young to start on straight sleeping pills, so I ended up getting these herbal supplements. And those worked all right, but it was all I got. My family couldn’t really afford a child psychologist, you know? So those worked for a few years, but when I got older they switched me to the hard stuff. I can’t remember which one they started first. And that was how I found out that I have one of those personalities that are prone to addiction.”

    “You became addicted?” Cas asked quietly.

    “Addicted seems like a strong word.” Dean swallowed. “It was more like… I don’t know… a reliance. But it sort of triggered everything else. I started drinking and smoking too much, and I abused the pills, then I started buying a whole bunch of other stupid shit – pain killers, sedatives, other sleeping meds. Things just snowballed. They usually do with shit like drugs.”

    “But… didn’t Sam notice? Or your dad? Didn’t they try to help you?” Cas narrowed his eyes sadly.

    “I’m good at hiding things. Sam never knew. ” Dean smiled humorlessly. “But I was arrested enough that the school started sending me to see Bela, to talk shit out. As for my old man… hell, you can’t expect a junkie to help another junkie. He was either away on the job or so hammered; he barely knew what was going on in our lives. He still doesn’t.”

    “How did you stop?”

    “Sometimes, I wouldn’t have a choice.” Dean reached up, rubbing his thumb along his bottom lip. “My dad didn’t have the money to keep filling the prescription. Then I would run out of money, and I couldn’t get my drug of the week off the streets. So I would sort of be forced to go through a week-long detox, only to run into some money and the whole cycle would start again.”

    Cas’ blue eyes were pained. “That sounds like hell.”

    “It wasn’t fun.” Dean agreed. “But… it still wasn’t my low point. Last spring, things were pretty bad. My old man came home from work stinking drunk – even more than usual. Went on a raging tear. Sam wasn’t around, thank God, but I was and he took out his frustrations on me. And I sort of snapped. I was so tired, Cas, I just wanted out. Not that I wanted to completely end it, it wasn’t like that, I just… wanted to sleep, for a long time. Sam was at a baseball game that night, so I went there with Ash. We were drinking. And just like that I decided to down the rest of whatever pills I had on me. Which wasn’t a lot, but enough to fuck me up. You’re not supposed to mix them with alcohol; not to that extent. Last thing I remember was passing out beneath the school’s bleachers. Then I was waking up in the hospital, stomach pumped, feeling like shit. Even now, I don’t know who found me or how I got there. For some reason I assumed it was Sam, but he didn’t know until the game was over…”

    Cas swallowed, but didn’t say anything. Dean took a shaky breath.

    “Anyway, so I spent the summer in rehab. _Not_ as glamorous as you’d think.” He said, and Cas smiled sadly. “And now… here I am. Two months sober.”

    “Two months… that’s impressive. You should be proud.” Cas said softly.

    “I’m grateful.” Dean said. “But I don’t know about proud. Not yet.”

    Cas pursed his lips, watching Dean carefully. “Dean… I have to tell you something.”

    Dean’s eyes tightened a little, his stomach turning uneasily. “What?”

    “I… I was at that ball game, too. I hadn’t meant to go, but Anna was there, and we were having this stupid fight so I stopped by to talk to her. Just as I was leaving, I noticed something under the bleachers. So I stopped.”

    Dean’s heart faltered. Cas looked down at his hands.

    “I was the one who found you. I had no idea what was wrong, it’s just… you didn’t look good. So I called 911. I stayed with you until they got there… I couldn’t just leave.” 

    “You?” Dean whispered, reaching out and lightly pressing his fingers to Cas’ ribs. “You found me?”

    Cas nodded. “Don’t be mad.”

    “Why would I be mad?”

    “I don’t know. Because I didn’t tell you until now.”

    “So what? Cas, you saved my life.” Dean stared at him, wide-eyed. “A few more minutes, and it might have been too late. I’m pretty much in your debt, now.”

    “Please don’t say that.” Cas said miserably. “I don’t want anybody to be in my debt. Dean, you know things about me, you help me… can we call it square? Please?”

    Dean’s eyes searched his, and he swallowed. “Okay. Okay, we’re square.”

    Cas relaxed, looking down to where Dean’s fingers were lightly pressed his shirt. Dean could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, and it was so reassuring, so damn comforting that it made his heart hurt.

    “What were you and Anna fighting about?” Dean asked quietly. Cas cleared his throat a little.

    “I was running away. She didn’t want me to go.” He said simply. Dean narrowed his eyes.

    “You were running away? Why?”

    “It was just a shitty time. I was on Prozac, but it wasn’t working. Gabe was leaving, and Bartholomew was coming home, and I’ve never gotten along with Bartholomew. So I decided I wanted to go back to Portland. Not that things were much better there, it’s just… I didn’t want to be here, either.”

    “So Anna talked you out of it?” Dean asked.

    “No,” Cas answered slowly, “I still ran away, and I made it to Portland. But I came back. Part of it was Anna and Charlie, but… I sort of wanted to check in on you. Make sure you were okay.”

    Warmth bloomed in Dean’s stomach. “I’m okay.”

    Cas smiled, leaning forward and kissing Dean softly. Dean could feel where the cut in his lip started, but he couldn’t help himself; he kissed Cas deeper, trying his best to be gentle. Cas’ hand reached up, brushing from his stomach up to his chest, and Dean shivered.

    For a long time, Dean just kissed him. He remembered doing something like this once with Tessa; he had been so stoned that every touch felt even more soft and warm than it usually was, and the drugs made time lazy and slow, so they’d just kissed and grazed at each other’s skin for hours. That’s how this was, except he didn’t need the drugs with Cas; Cas _was_ the drugs, he was downright intoxicating, and Dean breathed in the smell of him until his head felt heavy with it. He kissed along his neck and shoulder, brushing his fingers beneath his shirt, feeling Cas’ hands doing the same. And God, he could have done that for hours.

    When Dean finally opened his eyes, he noticed there was faint light coming through Cas’ window.

    “Shit.” He frowned. “How long have we been up?”

    Cas frowned at the clock on his desk. “A long time. It’s almost seven.”

    Just like that, exhaustion hit Dean like a cement truck. Stifling a yawn, he pulled at the covers of Cas’ bed, and the two of them climbed beneath.

    As they settled in, pressing against each other, the song that had been playing ended and a new one started. The slow, melancholic strum of a guitar hummed through the speakers. Cas’ tired eyes opened a little.

    “I like this song.” He whispered. Dean wrapped his arms around Cas’ waist and pulled him closer, listening to the first few lines he’d long since memorized:

 

_All is well; the spell is broken_

_I am here with you for a moment_

_Look in your eyes – close as we’ll ever be_

_Is this love? This could kill me._

    Cas closed his eyes again, letting out a long sigh. Soon, his breathing was even and steady. Dean felt his eyes being dragged shut, suddenly weighed down with how tired he was. But he still managed to pull Cas closer to him one more time, mumbling into his pillow,

    “Me too.”

 


	12. Hot and Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you couldn't tell by now, I like including music with my stories :P So hopefully everyone's cool with that! 
> 
> In this chapter my Canadian came through a little. I'm not sure how popular City & Colour is in the US or other countries?  
> Especially the earlier albums. But anyways if you haven't heard this band and you like sad music, go check them out. Either way, I sort of liked the idea of Dean playing their music. 
> 
> TW for self harm again.

Dean had always hated the term “falling off the wagon”. He wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was what the saying implied: a fall, which of course meant some kind of following impact; the rough shock of hitting solid ground.

He wasn’t even sure if he could classify what John was doing as “falling off the wagon”, considering Dean wasn’t sure that John had really been on it to begin with; the broken man’s earlier resolve had slowly decayed with the leaves outside.

Food disappeared from cupboards but wasn’t replaced. The boys found empties tucked away in random places around the house. They’d wake up to find the Impala parked crookedly in the driveway and John asleep in the front seat.

Then, November came. A line from an Angels and Airwaves song always popped into Dean’s head when he thought about it: _the predictable storm that has come every year; it sneaks in from shore with a bat in its hand._

The anniversary of their mom’s death always came around too soon. And even though they knew it was inevitable, it never lessened the impact. It wasn’t an extra day of grief; they didn’t buy flowers and visit her grave. The boys battened down the hatches. They retreated to their rooms and waited for the storm to pass.

It would start the day before the second of November. If it were a weekday, John wouldn’t go to work. He’d start drinking at noon and be lost to the world by suppertime, and then he’d fall into a fitful sleep until morning. The next day was a cycle of drinking, breaking random things he found around the house, before he disappeared to God knows where. Then he’d come home and it would all start again. If one of the boys were unlucky enough to get caught in the crosshairs, there was hell to pay.

If Dean had suspected John wasn’t on the wagon before, he was downright sure of it now. He watched sullenly as John drank himself into oblivion. Dean endured it like he always did: staying out of the house for as long as he could, and then hiding away when he was forced to return. Sam did the same, and they were lucky when the day passed with only a few broken dishes and a box full of empties to show for it.

Still, as always, the experience had Dean rattled. He hadn’t slept the night before or the night of, and when school started the next week, he was looking at three days without a wink of rest. He felt rough and raw around the edges; his eyes scratched each time he blinked, and his voice rasped its way out his throat. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes.

Cas visibly paled when Dean climbed into the skyline one morning.

“Dean,” He said, “You look horrible. Have you still not slept? I thought you said your dad was over it?”

“He is.” Dean croaked. “As much as “over it” my dad ever gets. I’m fine, I just need to break the cycle, you know? I’ll get some sleep tonight. Trust me.”

Cas pursed his lips. “You know, you can stay at my place if you want. It’ll be quieter. And it wouldn’t be hard to sneak around Bartholomew – it’s not like he pays much attention to me, anyways.”

Dean leaned his head against the window, smiling as he closed his eyes. “Cas, you know I’m not going to be sleeping if you’re around.”

Cas blushed a little, biting his sore lip. “Okay. I guess you have a point.”

That night, Dean felt the dregs of sleep pulling at him before it was even midnight. John had come home from work subdued but sober, and now he was shut away in his own room. Praying the calm lasted until morning, Dean retreated to his room and slipped beneath the covers of his bed, before succumbing to exhaustion.

Too soon, he was being woken back up. It took a while; he wasn’t sure what was pulling him out of sleep, considering he was positive he was capable of dozing for another twelve hours, at least. As he blinked himself awake, he became aware of the cold pinching at every nerve in his body. He had his blankets tucked up around his chin but he was still shivering.

Confused, Dean looked over his shoulder at his bedroom window. Had he opened it in his sleep? No, the window was latched shut as always. Yet Dean was positive the November night air was leaking into his bones; he was surprised he couldn’t see his breath rising in the air in front of him.

Muscles bunching against the cold, Dean reluctantly crawled out from the blankets. He grabbed a hoodie from his dresser and pulled it on, before stepping out into the dark and quiet hall. It was just as cold as his room – as if the house’s heat weren’t working at all.

Unease worked its way into Dean’s stomach, and he started for the kitchen. Just then, Sam opened his bedroom door and stepped out, almost bumping into him.

“Dean,” He whispered, “What the hell? It’s _freezing_ in here.”

“I know.” Dean’s teeth chattered a little. He hugged his arms closer to himself. “Come on, I’m going to go check the thermostat. Maybe Dad turned it off in a drunken stupor, or some dumb shit like that.”

Sam followed Dean to the back door, and Dean found the thermostat in the dark. He didn’t want to turn on the light and risk waking his father.

The screen of the thermostat didn’t display the temperature and settings, like it usually did. Instead, there was a single blinking message: _Error_. Dean frowned.

“What the-“

“Dean,” Sam said quietly behind him, “Look at this.”

Turning, Dean saw Sam standing by the kitchen table, holding up a folded up letter. He walked over and took it, dread dropping into his stomach as he read the words. He looked up at Sam.

“Our heat got turned off?”

“Sounds like it.” Sam’s jaw flexed. “That letter says dad hasn’t paid the heat bill since September.”

Dean threw the letter back down on the table. “ _Fuck_.” He hissed through his teeth, before bringing a hand up and smoothing it over his face. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he just forgot – you know how he is.” Sam replied, and Dean glanced at the kitchen clock.

“Well, it’s past one. There’s not much we can do about it now. We’ll just have to nut up for tonight, and… I dunno, we’ll figure it out tomorrow, I guess.”

Sam nodded, reaching up and rubbing at his bare arms. “You can stay in my room if you want. Between me and Bones, it’s gotta be warmer than your room.”

Dean hesitated, and then nodded.

Both boys were shivering as they crept beneath the blankets of Sam’s bed. Bones wagged his tail happily, crawling farther up toward Dean, pleased as punch to have a new bedmate. Dean rolled his eyes and scratched the dog’s ears, before burying himself beneath the blankets.

He was still shivering. He had his cell phone clasped in his hand, and he pulled it out and navigated to his weather app.

According the app, it was nearly zero degrees outside with the wind. Swallowing, Dean stuffed his phone under the pillow, before pressing himself a little closer to the warm lumps that were Sam and Bones.

He’d told Sam they’d figure it out in the morning. But figure what out? Neither of them had the money to pay the heat bill. And John hadn’t paid it, so it was likely that he didn’t have the money, either – much more likely than him just forgetting. So where did that leave them? How long did they have until their electricity was turned off, or their water? Anxiety twisted in Dean’s gut.

He thought of Cas. How warm he probably was in that big house, surrounded by those beautiful pictures on the walls. And here was Dean, having to share a bed with his younger brother like a damn seven-year-old, fighting off the cold because his dead-beat father kept drinking away their money.

Miserably, Dean realized that he meant what he’d said to Ash – Cas was too good for him.

 

People weren’t supposed to look cute when they were sick – that’s just how humanity worked. So Cas was more than a little frustrated that having a cold somehow worked out for Dean.

His face was flushed pink with fever, making his freckles stand out even more against his skin, and there were tired little crinkles around the edges of his eyes. His nose was red from being constantly assaulted with Kleenex. Despite his high temperature, he shivered constantly, meaning his body was usually wrapped up in a warm hoodie of some kind. Cas wanted so badly to _be_ one those hoodies.

Sure, Dean looked adorable when he had a cold. But that was the only silver lining. He was grumpy, and sleep-deprived, and constantly sniffling. Cas tried to take care of him, offering cold medicine and cough syrup around the clock, but Dean immediately refused all of it.

“Dean, it’s Dayquil, not Oxytocin. You’ll be fine.” Cas said in exasperation as they walked to fifth period.

“I don’t care. I’m not going to risk anything.” Dean grimaced at his nasally voice. “Besides, I’m at the tail end of it – I’ll be over this by tomorrow, I swear.”

“That’s what you said two days ago. You know, sleeping in your freezing house is probably what made you sick in the first place.”

“Being cold doesn’t give you a cold. That’s just a myth. But being cold and not sleeping must have lowered my immune system, or something.”

Cas pursed his lips, knowing that Dean was right. “When is your heat supposed to be back on?”

“My dad paid the bill yesterday.” Dean answered, “So within the next week? It takes a few days to process, apparently.”

“Dean…” Cas sighed, “Please stay at my house? It’s warm, and Bartholomew is gone, and you need the rest. You’re not getting better. You keep going like this, you’re going to end up missing school.”

That last point seemed to do it. Dean stopped, turning toward Cas, and Cas did the same. “You’re absolutely positive your brother won’t catch us?”

“I’m positive. I’m the last person he expects to sneak somebody into the house – it’s the perfect crime.”

Dean pursed his lips, looking like he was about to argue that last point. “Fine - but only until the heat comes back on at my place. I don’t really enjoy you putting your ass on the line for me.”

“Yeah, well,” Cas smirked at him before heading in the direction of the art studio, “Get used to it.”

Dean smirked back, wrinkling his nose at him as he turned toward his music class.

 

It took two nights for John to notice that his sons didn’t seem to be staying at the house. The two boys would stop by to grab fresh clothes or a stray schoolbook, but other than that, they were MIA. He realized this after waking up one morning to find their beds empty.

“Nearly gave me a heart attack, you know that?” He growled at Dean after school on the second day. Dean stooped his shoulders a little, ducking around the man so he could get the cell phone charger he’d left in his room. He was almost over his cold, but John’s voice had his head pounding all over again.

“Sorry. You already got a lot on your mind, we just didn’t want to add to it.” He said nervously, aware of John following him back to his room. He usually didn’t work to appease his dad like this, but November was a tricky time – it wasn’t usual circumstances. Dean would do anything to avoid a blow-up at this point.

“Yeah, well, you screwed the pooch on that one.” John crossed his arms as he watched his son move around his room. “So where are you boys staying?”

Dean swallowed, avoiding meeting the man’s gaze at all costs. “Bobby’s.”

It was a bald-faced lie; he was at Cas’, and Sam and Bones were staying in the spare bedroom at Jess’. Sam was worried about overstaying his welcome, but Dean knew the kid had it made – Jess’ parents adored him.

Cell phone charger and a change of clothes in hand, Dean turned to face John. His dad narrowed his eyes at him.

“Fine. But you boys mind your manners and don’t give Bobby any trouble. That man’s busy enough without worrying about two teenagers running around his place.”

Dean gave John a dull “Yes, sir,” before pushing past him and out into the hall.

“And don’t get too cozy, either.” John called after him. “Heat should be back on in a few days.”

Dean didn’t answer, just pushed out into the frigid November air, fear rushing through him when he realized John might call Bobby to confirm his story. No amount of backpedalling or apologizing would be able to get Dean out of getting caught in that lie.

 

 

Dean sat marooned on Cas’ bed, cell phone plugged into the wall beside him. Notebooks were spread out around him, but they were mostly ignored. He couldn’t shake the paranoid feeling in his gut – like he expected John to come storming through Castiel’s door at any minute.

He was positive this anxiety was bringing his cold back. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, willing away a sneeze as he picked up his phone and found Bobby’s number. He put the phone to his ear and waited.

“Dean?” Bobby’s voice rumbled through the line, and Dean dropped his hand. “What is it, boy? Everything alright?”

“Yeah-” Dean’s voice rasped, and he cleared his throat a little. “Yeah, everything’s fine. I just… my dad hasn’t called you, has he?”

“John? No, haven’t heard from him in a while, actually. Why?”

“He might call you. Cause… ” Dean rubbed the back of his neck, “I sort of told him Sam and I were staying at your place.”

Dean could almost hear Bobby’s deep frown through the phone. “Staying here?”

“Yeah. Dad forgot to pay for the heat, and it’s freezing at our place. So Sam and I left ‘til it comes back on.”

“Shit. Well where’d you go, if you’re not here?”

“Sam’s at Jess’. And I’m… staying at a friend’s.” Dean glanced up at Cas’ door, where the boy had disappeared through a while earlier.

“Why can’t you just tell your old man that? I know he’s a tough guy but I don’t think he’d get too mad.”

“Because, it’s… it’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Bobby asked. Dean took a breath, but didn’t answer. “Look, Dean, you know I’m on your side. But if I’m lying for you… it would be nice to know why.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. He almost hated when Bobby was this nice – it made things worse, somehow. “It’s complicated because… the friend is – is more than a friend. And I don’t want my dad to know about it.”

“Why not? You’ve been around the block with your share of girls, Dean. He probably wouldn’t even blink.”

“He – he just wouldn’t approve. Trust me on this, okay?”

Bobby paused, taking a deep breath. “Okay. You’re sort of worrying me, though, Dean.”

“Don’t worry.” Dean said quickly. “I’m fine.”

“Well, if you say so. I got you boys covered.”

“Thanks, Bobby.” Dean said quietly, his muscles finally relaxing.

“Hey, don’t mention it.”

 

Cas could have sworn that Bartholomew sensed exactly when Castiel did _not_ want to talk. Because he always picked those moments to pounce on him; to bring up things like school and medication and _how things will be at Princeton,_ even though Castiel was struggling to keep those subjects buried, because that kind of ignorance was the only thing keeping him sane.

That night, Bartholomew had cornered Castiel on the way up to his room. The younger Novak nodded his way through Bartholomew’s lecture, his hand closed in a fist behind his back so he could dig his nails into his skin. He focused on the pain as Bartholomew explained that he was pulling strings at Princeton, trying to get him into a few second-year classes early. Cas almost threw up as he thought about it.

When Bartholomew asked about his medication, Cas was quick to respond that the Wellbutrin was working out. What he didn’t mention was that he’d stopped taking it a week ago. By all accounts, his brother had been right: the pills eased the anxiety and his thinking had cleared. They’d done the trick. So he obviously didn’t need to take them anymore, right?

Still, Cas’ stomach was in knots for the rest of the night. When he finally succumbed to exhaustion, climbing beneath his bed covers with Dean, Cas gave a silent prayer of thanks that Bartholomew’s room was on the main floor instead of on the second with his.

“Cas,” Dean whispered into the darkness, his breath ruffling Cas’ hair, “Thanks for letting me stay here. I know it’s been making you a nervous wreck, but… it’s probably the best sleep I’ve had in a while. So thanks.”

Cas’ muscles relaxed and little, and he pressed his back closer into Dean’s chest. “You don’t have to thank me – I like having you here. It’s Bartholomew I wish would leave.”

Dean laughed softly, his body shaking against Cas’. “Maybe someday… we could have our own place in New York. And we wouldn’t have to whisper all the time, or worry about someone walking in on us. It would be just us.”

Cas smiled in spite of himself. “Yeah. And even if our heat got shut off, we could keep each other warm. And we could order Chinese food no matter what time it was.”

“Mmm.” Cas could feel Dean smiling against the back of his neck, his lips humming across his skin. “And we’ll get a dog and then fight over who’s turn it is to walk him.”

Cas grinned. “And we’ll probably end up naming him something stupid because we can’t think of anything else.”

“Yeah…” Dean yawned. “Like Toto. Or Lassie.”

Cas laughed softly, before he yawned, too. He closed his eyes. “Someday.”

 

For the first time in weeks, Bartholomew was working a morning shift. He was grateful; even if it was for one day. Graveyard shifts at the hospital always proved to be more interesting, but he enjoyed the pleasantly human routine of waking with the sun. He’d shower, grab a coffee, and then put on a fresh suit before heading out into the world, joining the daily grind along with everyone else. It was sort of refreshing.

That morning, though, he had a slight deviation from his routine. He’d talked to Cas about that medication, and if his calculations were correct, the kid probably needed a refill. Figuring his younger brother should be awake by now, he decided to head up to Cas’ room and grab the bottle to take to the hospital’s pharmacy. 

The entire second floor was quiet. Of course, it usually was, seeing as how Cas was the only person who inhabited it. But Bartholomew didn’t even hear the shower water running or the gentle footsteps of Cas moving through his room; strange, considering Castiel was usually up before he was.

His bedroom door was closed, but Bartholomew knew that Cas never locked it. He put rested his hand on the handle, listening to the silence for another second before quietly pushing it down.

Everything in that house worked like the cogs of a well-oiled machine, so Bartholomew wasn’t surprised when Cas’ door didn’t stick and the hinges didn’t creak as he slowly opened the door.

Morning sunlight, pale with fresh snow, poured into Castiel’s room. As expected, Bartholomew spotted a sleeping lump under the covers. He glanced at it before his eyes travelled to Cas’ desk, figuring this was probably where he would keep the bottle of pills – next to his computer, where he wouldn’t miss it.

Straightening his tie, Bartholomew began to pad across the carpet toward the desk. As he did, he involuntarily glanced over at the bed again. Then he stopped.

Castiel _was_ beneath the covers – the only problem was that he wasn’t alone. Pressed against him was a boy, probably about the same age, with light hair and a face flushed with sleep. The kid slept with one arm thrown haphazardly above their heads, the other resting across Cas’ hip. The youngest Novak was facing him, his arms curled between their bodies and his mouth hanging open a little as he slept. Their lips were inches apart.

Bartholomew was frozen to the spot. His eyes flickered from Castiel, to the strange boy lying beside him. He could almost hear the gears in his head halting, grinding against each other as he struggled to form a coherent thought.

Quickly, he turned on his heel and fled the room, closing the door behind him as he went. Bartholomew knew he had just seen something he wasn’t supposed to. But he also knew there was no way he could pretend that he hadn’t seen it.

 

When the heat came back on at the Winchester’s, it was with a vengeance. Dean wasn’t sure if this was John’s weird way of getting back at the city, but the old man cranked the heat up almost as high as it would go – almost to prove that he would be able to handle the higher bill the coming month. This made Dean nervous; especially considering he wasn’t even sure if that was true.

At any rate, the first few days back home were sweltering. Dean and Sam walked around the house in t-shirts, until eventually Sam succumbed and put on shorts. Dean got desperate enough that he cracked open his bedroom window, just an inch, but when John saw, it earned him a sharp cuff up the side of the head.

“You wanted warm, now it’s warm.” The man scolded. “Jesus Christ – there’s no winning with you boys.”

Despite this, Dean knew he should be happy that at least things were getting back to normal. But something inside of him was restless; something felt off. He just wasn’t sure what.

 

Things were too quiet at the Novak house; the kind of quiet that Castiel wasn’t sure how to fix. He put on music, he watched TV, he ran the washer and the dishwasher just to make some kind of abstract noise. But it didn’t help. And he wasn’t sure why, because he’d always _liked_ silence. He wasn’t sure why this silence felt so goddamn heavy. It pressed against his ears and made his chest feel tight. If he didn’t find a way to shatter it, he would explode.

This was how he found himself, late one evening, locked away in the second-floor bathroom. He was biting his lip, cursing himself because he was _positive_ he hadn’t cut that deep, but then why was there so much blood? Shaking, he tossed clumps of red-stained toilet paper into the trash, his muscles pressing against the gauze he had wrapped around his arms.

He’d cut thin horizontal lines, all the way from his wrists up to the crooks of his elbows, and while he felt ashamed he wasn’t exactly sorry. Because now the silence was shattered. Now he could breathe.

Pulling his sleeves down to his hands, Cas unlocked the bathroom door and retreated back to his room. There were pages of homework spread out on his bed, but he knew he didn’t have the brainpower for it that night. Instead, he grabbed his iPod and put the ear buds in, finding a particularly loud and cacophonous Angels and Airwaves song to loose himself in.

Suddenly, something hit Castiel’s foot, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. His eyes snapped open to see Bartholomew standing at the foot of his bed, and Cas pulled the buds out of his ears.

“Shit. You scared me.” He said, passing a hand over his face as he sat up. He eyed Bartholomew warily – he never came into Castiel’s room.

“Cas.” Bartholomew’s lips were drawn into a tight line, and he pushed his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. On Bartholomew, it was a confrontational stance. Cas’ stomach tightened. “We need to talk.”

Cas’ mind back-pedalled. He was passing his classes and he hadn’t missed a session with Bela… the only thing Cas could think of was quitting his meds. That’s probably what this was about, but Cas knew it was better to play dumb. He swallowed.

“Okay. What about?”

Bartholomew pursed his lips, looking hard at Cas. A cold feeling dropped into Cas’ stomach. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for a few days, but things have kept coming up. I can’t put it off any more.”

Bartholomew paused. Cas knew better than to interrupt. “Cas, I usually respect your privacy. But the other morning, it occurred to me that you probably needed a refill for your medication. So I came in your room to find the bottle. You were still sleeping.”

Cas looked at Bartholomew, confusion slowly, terribly giving way to outright panic. He felt it flooding his bones, pulsing through his veins painfully, throbbing beneath the gauze on his arms.

_The other morning… in your room… you were sleeping..._

_Shit_. Bartholomew knew.

Castiel wasn’t sure how to handle this amount of terror. It paralyzed him, so that all he could do was stare at Bartholomew blankly, feeling his world crumble to pieces around him.

“Cas, you weren’t alone.” Bartholomew went on, his voice stern. “You had someone else in here with you. Who was it?”

Cas willed his muscles to move; to do anything. He managed a swallow, before rasping out, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, cut the crap, Cas.” Bartholomew scowled at him, taking a hand out of his pocket to run through his hair. “I _saw_ it. I saw _him._ Now spill, or we’re going to do this the hard way.”

Cas paled. He had no idea what “the hard way” was. There had never been a “hard way” before. His breathing quickened, and he opened his mouth, forcing the words out though he felt his throat closing up with panic, “It was – h-he – we were…”

He trailed off, completely unable to finish. He dropped his face in his hands and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to find something real to ground himself in, otherwise he was sure he’d lose it completely.

“Cas.” Bartholomew said sternly. “Breathe. Focus. This isn’t the end of the world. I just want some information, here.”

Cas lifted his head, taking a few forceful breaths. A hundred lame excuses and explanations ran through his head – _we’re just friends, he’s nobody, it’s not what you think, it won’t happen again…_ but he knew he wouldn’t say any of them.

“His name’s Dean.” Cas finally managed, his voice wrecked. Bartholomew’s jaw flexed.

“Dean Winchester?” He asked. Cas wasn’t sure how Bartholomew knew who Dean was, but he was betting it wasn’t good.

“Yes.”

“And you’re together?”

Cas nodded, looking defeated.

“Well, I can’t say I’m happy about this, Cas. You’re too young to be making these kinds of decisions about yourself.” Bartholomew ranted, and Cas’ head snapped up, fury passing through his blue eyes. “And with _Dean Winchester?_ Do you have any idea the kind of record that kid’s got? He’s not good for you, Cas. I mean, it’s fine if you have to get this phase out of your system, but I’m not sure this is the best way.”

For the first time in his life, Castiel was both too angry and too scared to speak.

“Honestly,” Bartholomew went on, and Cas hated how level and controlled his voice sounded, “I’m not sure what to say right now. I never really expected this of you, Cas. I mean, I knew you were different, but…” He turned away, running a hand over his mouth. He took a few steps toward the door before stopping again. “I have to get to work. But this isn’t over.”

 

Finally, the heat at Dean’s house seemed to be tapering off. Feeling a slight chill against his skin, Dean dug through the clothes on his floor and pulled on a hoodie. That’s when he heard a car pull up outside, its engine rumbling idly before sputtering to a stop.

Dean frowned. John was supposed to be working until morning – it was one of those snow-clearing jobs on the highway that had to be done at night. Besides, Dean knew the sound of the Impala anywhere, and that hadn’t been it.

He was walking down the hall when there were a few soft knocks on the front door. Bones barked lazily, and Dean shushed him before peaking through the blinds of the front window.

On the front step, Cas stood shivering, his hands shoved into the pockets of his pea coat. His black hair was messed and his eyes looked red-rimmed.

Stomach turning, Dean hurried to unlock the front door and threw it open.

“Cas, what the hell?” He asked, reaching out and pulling Cas in from the cold. “What happened?”

Cas’ eyes were wide and panicked. “It’s Bartholomew. He knows, Dean.”

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. “What do you mean? How did he find out?”

“He came in my room the other morning.” Cas reached up, dragging his hands through his hair. “And we were both in there, sleeping…”

“ _Shit.”_ Dean grimaced. “Well… what did he do, what did he say?”

“Not much.” Cas shook his head. “He hasn’t really wrapped his head around it. But he doesn’t like it, Dean, and I don’t know what’s going to happen now and I didn’t know what else to do…”

Cas trailed off, sucking in a shallow breath. His eyes were still panicked and glazed, like they weren’t really seeing anything. He tried to breathe in again, but the sound was strangled, as if it were getting caught in his throat.

“Whoa, whoa…” Dean reached out, lightly touching Cas’ arms, “Are you alright? Are you having a panic attack?”

Cas nodded.

Dean glanced around, as if looking for help. “Okay.” He said, looking back at Cas. “Okay.” He started to undo the buttons of Cas’ coat, then pulled the coat off him and threw it on the couch. Then he pulled Cas in the direction of his room. “Come on.”

Kicking off his Chuck Taylors, Cas followed, his breath rattling in his throat.

Dean closed the door, and then sat Cas down on the edge of the bed. He was able to take a few shaky inhales, but he didn’t seem to be able to push the air out again. Dean’s eyes widened.

“Hey,” He said, kneeling down in front of him. “It’s okay. Just breathe out, all right? Like this.”

Dean gave an exaggerated exhale, and Cas fixed his eyes on him as he did the same.

“Good.” Dean nodded. “Good. Now just keep doing that. What exactly did Bartholomew say?”

“He said,” Cas broke off, taking another forceful breath, “That this is just me working through a phase. He said he doesn’t like it.”

“Okay. Well, that’s not the worst thing in the world, right? It could have been worse.”

Cas shook his head, and his hands started to tremble. “You don’t know that. Maybe this is the worst. Maybe he’s going to kick me out and then I’ll have to live in foster care until I’m 18. And then I won’t graduate, so I’ll be 18 without a diploma and no one will want to hire me so I’ll be homeless by the time I’m twenty. Homeless and dirty and gross. And winters are cold, here, Dean. I mean, I’ll get by for a while - I’ll probably try sleeping in a bus depot or something except the cops will kick me out of there, too, and then I’ll die of pneumonia on a park bench. And I don’t even know if they have funerals for homeless people. I’ve never even thought of that before.”

Dean just stared at him. “Holy shit.” He mumbled. “Cas – CAS. Look at me.”

Cas swallowed, his blue eyes focusing on Dean’s with effort.

“None of that is going to happen. Even if Bartholomew decides to kick you out, you won’t be homeless. Do you think I would let that happen? Or Gabriel, or Anna, or Charlie? Yeah, this is shitty right now, but we’ll work through it. It’s fixable. You got me?”

Cas looked at Dean, taking a few more breaths. “Yeah.” He managed. “I got you.”

“Good.” Dean said, his eyes willing Cas not to look away. “Now keep breathing.”

Cas nodded, sucking in a breath before forcing it out again. Dean stayed kneeling in front of him, breathing with him until the breaths became more natural.

“Better?” Dean asked, reaching up and resting his hands on Cas’ knees. Cas nodded.

“A little.” His voice sounded tired. He took a long breath in, and then forced it out again. Dean watched him, his lips pressing together.

“Cas, I’m sorry.” He said quietly, pain crossing his features. Cas’ eyes found his.

“For what?”  
  
"For fucking everything up.” Dean’s voice broke a little. “This is my fault. I never should have been at your place – I knew it was risky, but I did it anyways.” 

“Dean,” Cas swallowed, shaking his head, “This isn’t your fault. This was going to happen eventually.”

“Yeah, but it didn’t have to be this soon.” Dean stood up, running his hands through his hair before locking his fingers behind his head. His heart was twisting with guilt. Despite what he’d said to Cas, fear was working its way into his gut. What if something bad _did_ happen?

Cas had one hand gripping his arm, and Dean watched him squeeze it forcefully. His knee started bouncing up and down, and he looked up at Dean. “This is a lot of things – it’s shitty, and yeah, it’s scaring the hell out of me. But it’s _not_ your fault.”

Dean dropped his arms and studied Cas’ face. The kid’s blue eyes were hard with resolution. Dean only half-believed Cas, but he forced himself to nod all the same. Him going on a guilt trip probably wasn’t what Cas needed right now.

Taking another deep breath, Cas rested his elbows on his knees, covering his mouth with his hand. He stared at the wall opposite of him. He was still for a few moments, before his chest started rising and falling rapidly.

“Cas?” Dean asked warily, “You alright?”

Cas nodded. “Just give me a few minutes.” He muttered through his hand. Dean’s jaw flexed, but he left Cas alone, opting to pace around the room aimlessly.

That didn’t really help. After just a few seconds, the paranoid thoughts swarmed around in his head like wasps. The movement did nothing but make his heart speed up uncomfortably.

Trying to give Cas space, he sat down on the floor, his back against the side of his bed. He closed his eyes and listened to Cas’ breathing, laboured and a little shallow. Dean peeked over his shoulder and saw that his eyes were still panicked, but his knee had stopped bouncing.

_Baby steps_. Dean turned away, closing his hands into fists and then uncurling them again, trying to make the tension leave his muscles. His eyes wandered and found his guitar lying on the floor a little way from him, the sheet music from his latest assignment spread out around it.

Without really thinking, he picked up the guitar and rested it on his lap. The cool wood against his stomach was reassuring, and for a second all he did was rest his fingers on the frets and strings, closing his eyes at the feeling. Then he started to play.

It was really quiet at first; his skin light against the strings, picking out the tune of a City and Colour song he had learned to play ages ago. He liked it because it was sad and slow, so he figured Cas probably liked it, too. But when the part came around where Dallas Green’s voice would chime in, Dean didn’t sing. He just recited the words in his head and kept his lips firmly closed.

When he was done, he expected Cas to say something. But the kid was quiet, and Dean chanced another glance over his shoulder.

Cas still sat with his chin in his hands, but his eyes were closed now. Though his eyebrows were a little furrowed, his breathing had almost completely slowed, and his body was still. Smiling a little, Dean started playing again.

 

It only took a few notes for Cas to recognize the song. It was called “Forgive Me”, and whether the choice was subconscious one or not, he wasn’t really sure. He just let the notes puncture the silence around them, slowly coaxing him out of that torturous tailspin.

Gradually, his heart rate calmed. Breathing became easier again. Cas let his eyes fall closed, and he felt his muscles slowly unlock themselves, one by one.

As they did, exhaustion leeched into him. Panic attacks were always gruelling – mentally and physically – and they left Cas feeling beaten down and tired. His chest ached, as if his heart had been fighting off cardiac arrest, and his limbs were weak.

The song ended and Dean started playing another; slow and sad, just like the last. Cas smiled to himself, knowing Dean was probably choosing these kinds of songs because he knew Cas liked them. Sighing, he slowly leaned back and fell onto the bed, spreading his arms out on either side of him.

He was so damn tired.

After that song ended, Dean just leaned his head back against the bed, letting silence settle around them. Cas took a breath before he broke it, his voice coming out rasped and worn.

“What would I have to do to get you to sing?” He asked. Dean snorted softly, the movement jostling the bed a little.

“Nothing. I don’t sing.” He said, but his voice was resigned.

“Yes you do.” Cas argued half-heartedly. “Come on – it’s just me. I won’t tell anyone.”

Cas looked sideways at Dean, to where he sat on the floor beside the bed. He could see his eyes narrowing, hesitant. Cas waited.

“Especially Jo.” Dean said finally, and Cas’ heart jumped, “She would skin me if she found out you heard me sing.”

Cas nodded gravely, trying to contain his excitement. “I won’t say anything, I promise.”

Dean gave a little nod, but he didn’t do anything else. Cas forced himself to be patient, knowing this chance wasn’t going to come around again anytime soon. He looked away from Dean, because he didn’t want him to feel any more nervous than he already was. He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, counting to twenty in his head before the soft strumming reached his ears.

The song was called “Hello, I’m In Delaware”, and it was one of Cas’ favourites. Cas didn’t think Dean knew that, so he chalked it up to coincidence. Maybe it was one of Dean’s favourites, too. But right away Cas was impressed, because the song didn’t sound all that easy to play – the strumming was interspersed with smooth licks and complicated picking, the sliding of fingers across frets as he twanged the notes out. But Dean didn’t miss a beat. He played the song as if he had written it.

Cas’ heart was already twisting, but it almost gave out all together when Dean started singing. Because his voice was exactly like him: smooth and low, but tinged with gravel and rough around the edges. He hit every note perfectly, and his voice was so quiet that Cas had to strain to listen for it.

He loved every word of that song; he latched on to every smooth chord strummed out by Dean’s fingers. And Cas was certain he would never be able to listen to the original ever again, because Dean had completely ruined it for him. And he wasn’t even mad. When Dean got to his favourite part, Cas closed his eyes.

 

_My body aches_

_And it hurts to sing_

_And no one is moving._

_And I wish that I weren’t here tonight_

_But this is my life._

 

The last strum hummed through the room, bouncing off the walls lightly before it faded into silence. Cas hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. Something about Dean’s voice made everything inside of him hurt. The music was too much: like the unrelenting current in a river, and he knew he was letting himself be pulled under. Only now did he realize that having Dean meant having everything to lose.

The bed moved lightly, and Cas opened his eyes to see Dean hovering above him, his hands braced on either side of Cas’ head. He tilted his head at him, green eyes nervous.

“Remember,” His lip twitched up a little, “This never happened.”

Dean was trying to sound playful, but Cas couldn’t ignore the shaken feeling in his bones. He looked up at Dean, brow creasing a little as he whispered,

“I’m so fucking in love with you.”

Dean’s face went blank, and for a few moments, he just looked at Cas. Then his eyes softened, his eyebrows knitting together. His voice was barely audible when he replied, “I love you too, Cas. And I’m really, really sorry.”

Cas frowned. “Why are you sorry?”

“Because nothing good has ever come of me loving someone.” Dean stated it as a fact. Like something he’d long since gotten used to.

Cas shook his head. “Well, that changes now. Things will be different now.”

Dean didn’t look like he believed him – he probably _didn’t_ believe him, because he was Dean and Cas knew that Dean didn’t believe in much. But still, he nodded, lowering himself down to Cas and kissing him.

 


	13. Family

Cas was able to completely avoid Bartholomew for the next eighteen or so hours. He left for school before his older brother came home, but when he returned afterward, Bartholomew’s BMW was in the garage where it belonged. Swallowing, Cas nearly tiptoed into the house, wondering what the chances were that he could get up to his room unnoticed.

“Cas.” He had barely taken three steps before Bartholomew’s voice called from the kitchen. Cas felt fear turning into numbness as he rounded the corner, his eyes landing on his older brother leaning against the counter.

“Look…” Bartholomew’s voice was firm, but it didn’t have that angry incredulity anymore. Cas supposed he should take that as a good sign. But his older brother could barely look him in the eye. “Whatever this is, whatever you’re doing… I don’t understand it. But you’re a good kid, and you’ve really bounced back this year. So I’m going to humor you.”

Cas had to bite his tongue to keep himself from snarling _gee, thanks._

“So,” Bartholomew went on, “You can keep seeing Dean Winchester. But I want to meet him.”

Cas’ face paled. “What?”

“Gabriel’s coming in from New Jersey this weekend, since school is on break for Thanksgiving. I think it would be nice if Gabe met him, too. He’s always been a little unorthodox, but he’s a good judge of character.”

Cas just stared at him, completely dumbfounded. The thought of formally introducing Dean to Bartholomew absolutely terrified him, only because he knew Bartholomew had already made up his mind. Even if he met Dean, if he actually saw how good and kind and smart he was, it still wouldn’t change anything.

Gabriel coming into town was the only silver lining. It was almost impossible for things to get too heated and awkward when Gabe was around.

“Alright.” Cas finally managed. “Fine.”

When Cas picked Dean up the next morning for school, the older Winchester knew right away that something had happened.

“What?” he asked, searching Cas’ face, “What happened, what did he say?”

Cas pursed his lips, focusing on the road as he pulled away from the curb. His tires spun a little on a patch of ice. “He wants to meet you.”

Dean just stared at Cas, the blood draining from his face. “Your brother?”

“Yes.” Cas had to stop from rolling his eyes. _Who else?_ “This Friday, before you and I go to the Roadhouse. Gabe is coming in for Thanksgiving, and Bartholomew wants me to introduce you to both of them.”

Dean looked confused. “I thought you said your brother didn’t like you being with me?”

“He doesn’t.” Cas glanced over at Dean. God, how could someone not like Dean? One look at those freckles and green eyes, and already Cas felt himself melting. “He said he’s humoring me. But I think he’s just looking for a better reason to put his foot down.”

“Oh. So no pressure, then.” Dean was trying for sarcasm, but his voice was too shaky for that. Cas sighed.

“Look, I don’t really have a choice. I know Bartholomew is stubborn and difficult to get along with – even at the best of times.”

“Well that’s reassuring.”

“But Gabe will be there, and he’s basically Bartholomew’s opposite. He’s always been on my side. So it can’t be all bad.”

Dean pursed his lips, running his hands through his hair. “Awesome.”

 

 

School felt like an alien planet. Dean could barely bring himself to care about any of it: about the papers and extra assignments and whether or not he returned his library books on time. His father was falling back into being a barely-functioning alcoholic, and he was living with the constant fear that one day, Cas would inexplicably disappear. Not to mention the impending doom of meeting Cas’ family on Friday.

Dean found it so hard to actually care about the various things his teachers were trying to drill into his brain. But he knew he couldn’t afford to ignore it. Gradually, he rounded up scholarship applications, meanwhile Bela shoved various college pamphlets into his tired hands, and Dean just tried to keep up with it.

One night, he barged into Sam’s room around midnight, roughly shoving his shoulder to wake him.

“Dean?” Sam croaked, wiping strands of brown hair out of his face. “What the hell?”

“Hide this.” Dean demanded, throwing his tin of Altoids on Sam’s chest. “Or better yet, throw it out. Just don’t tell me which.”

Sam picked up the tin. “You want me to hide a tin of Altoids?”

“It’s not Altoids.” Dean said in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just get rid of it, okay? I can’t have it around anymore.”

“Okay,” Sam said, trying a placating tone. “Okay, I will.”

Dean nodded, looking at the Altoids tin with a mixture of loss and anger, before turning and disappearing back to his room.

Really, Dean should have seen his sobriety – going on three months – for the miracle it was. But he didn’t see it that way, because Dean would never admit to anything being a miracle. It was the result of hard work and will power, that’s all: it was the product of quiet afternoons watching Cas draw, and jam sessions with Jo, and good-natured debates about Star Trek with Charlie. These were the things that kept Dean sane.

Still, he had never hated his sobriety as much as he did come Friday night. As he parked the Skyline outside of Cas’ house, with Cas fidgeting restlessly in the passenger seat, Dean found himself fervently wishing there was _something_ flowing through his blood system to take the edge off. A downer, a shot of whiskey: _anything._ Even the smallest sounds grated against his nerves, and if he didn’t focus on regulating his breathing, he was sure he would hyperventilate.

God, he was so damn grateful he’d given his backup stash to Sam.

As the two boys climbed out of the car and headed for the house, Cas glanced over at Dean, before reaching out and taking his hand firmly.

“It’ll be fine.” He said quietly, and it sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as Dean. “This will only take half an hour, tops, and then we can go to the Roadhouse and watch Jo’s set. We got this.”

Dean took a breath, steam rising in the cold night air, and nodded as they stopped at the front door. “We got this.”

Cas squeezed Dean’s hand then let it go, before opening the door.

Right away, the house felt different from how Dean was used to it: quiet and cool and freakishly clean. Now, though, the sound of muffled music floated through the walls, and the air was warmer than usual. Every light was on, making the whitewashed and pristine interior so bright that it hurt his eyes a little.

Cas threw Dean an apprehensive glance, before leading him out of the entryway and to the living room.

Dean spotted Cas’ Victrola player on a side table, a vinyl record revolved slowly on it. “Love Is Strange” by Mickey and Sylvia was playing, the sliding, summer-kissed notes bouncing off the walls. A half-empty martini glass sat beside it.

Cas glanced around the empty room when a relatively short guy with brunette hair appeared around the corner, a playful smile lighting up his face.

“Hey, little bro!” He said, turning the volume down on the player. Dean watched Cas’ muscles relax a little, a small smile warming his face.

“Gabe. When did you get in?”

“Oh, what, thirty minutes ago?” Gabriel walked over to them, his foxlike eyes glancing at Dean curiously. “Flight was terrible, by the way. If you think a bitch of a hangover can’t be made worse by being on an airplane, you’d be wrong.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Cas said, obviously trying not to roll his eyes.

“Come on, Castiel, you’re so serious all the time.” Gabe chided, clapping a hand on Cas’ shoulder. “Keep it up like that and you’ll end up like Bartholomew. So…” Gabriel eyed Dean, “is this the home wrecker Bartholomew has been telling me about?”

Cas paled in mortification. “ _Gabe_.”

“I’m kidding! I kid.” Gabriel laughed, holding a hand out to Dean. “I’m Gabriel. Castiel’s older and way more sophisticated brother.”

“I wouldn’t use the word ‘sophisticated’.” Cas muttered.

Dean tried his hardest to look at ease as he shook Gabe’s hand. “Dean. Winchester.”

Dean noticed that Gabe didn’t look much like Cas: he saw a hint of resemblance in their smiles, but only a hint. His eyes were darker than Castiel’s and way more mischievous. They fixed themselves on Cas, a thin eyebrow arching up.

“I gotta say, I knew you wouldn’t come out of the closet unless it was for a good reason. He’s cute, Cassie.”

Dean flushed pink, and Cas’ eyes were burning with humiliation. He glared at Gabriel. “Please don’t call me that.”

“Sorry, _sorry_.” Gabriel held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I keep forgetting you guys hate nicknames. Sheesh. I called Bartholomew ‘Bart’ earlier and I thought he was going to shoot lasers out of his eyes.”

“If only.” Came a dry voice, and a tall figure walked into the living room, his head bent over a stack of papers in his hand. As soon as Dean saw Bartholomew, an uncomfortable jolt shot down his spine. He realized he recognized him; had _definitely_ seen him somewhere before, if only just in passing. But Dean just couldn’t figure out where.

Bartholomew dropped the papers on a side table with a loud _thump_ , and then looked up at the three of them. A thin, tight smile stretched at his lips and he walked over to Dean, extending his hand.

“I’m Bartholomew Novak. Castiel’s oldest brother.”

Dean swallowed, not even attempting to hide the distrust in his eyes as he shook Bartholomew’s hand. “Dean Winchester.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, officially.” At that last word, Dean felt himself redden, realizing Bartholomew was hinting at the fact that he’d already seen Dean in their house. If Bartholomew saw Dean’s discomfort, he didn’t mention it. He gestured to the expensive, modern looking couches behind them. “Sit. Please.”

Cas glanced at Dean as they sat, but Dean kept his eyes on Bartholomew. He only looked a little bit more like Cas than Gabe; they had the same wiry, athletic build and angular jaw. Like Cas, Bartholomew’s eyes were blue, but in an entirely different way. While Cas’ eyes were deep and capable of holding depths of emotion and unsaid words, Bartholomew’s eyes were hard and impenetrable. Like looking into a frosted covering of ice, with no idea what lied beneath. Dean shivered.

Bartholomew and Gabriel sat on the couch opposite of them. Bartholomew’s posture was strangely professional, but Gabriel lounged, throwing an arm over the back of the couch and crossing his legs. He reached for the martini glass off the table and brought it to his lips.

“So,” Bartholomew said, clapping his hands together. “You go to school with Castiel.”

“Yeah.” Dean said, clearing his throat a little. He felt a thin line of sweat trickling down his back. “Yeah, I’m a senior, like him.”

“Cas has never mentioned you much before this year.” Bartholomew watched Dean closely.

“Um,” Involuntarily, Dean’s mind flashing back to the numerous times he’d been arrested and interrogated. This felt just like that. He almost felt disoriented without the swinging lamp above his head. “Well, we didn’t really get to know each other until this year.”

“You’re going to college, I assume?” Bartholomew’s voice hinted that the wrong answer would have disastrous consequences.

“Yes sir.” Dean offered a silent prayer of thanks that he didn’t have to lie about this one.

“What will you be studying?”

Dean hesitated. “I’m not sure, to be honest. But I’m good with numbers and building things. I was thinking maybe engineering, or architecture.”

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows, and Dean realized he looked somewhat impressed. He glanced over at Cas, and Cas gave him a small smile. But Bartholomew was just getting started.

“Your father is a veteran, correct?”

Dean looked back at Bartholomew, dread dropping into his stomach. _Oh, shit._

“Yeah, he did three tours in Iraq. He works in construction now.”

“So he was discharged?” Bartholomew asked. Dean nodded. “What for?”

Dean’s jaw flexed. There was really no point in lying about it. “Post-Traumatic Stress.”

Bartholomew nodded, but there was something hidden behind his eyes. Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Any siblings?”

“Younger brother.” Now, a small smile twitched at Dean’s lip. “Sam. He goes to school with Cas and me.”

Bartholomew opened his mouth to say something else, but Gabriel interrupted.

“Jesus Christ,” He said, putting the now empty martini glass back down on the table, “Stop grilling the poor kid. You’d think he was a stone-cold criminal. Besides, let’s ask the important questions.” Gabe leaned forward. “Now Dean, what exactly are your intentions with our Castiel?”

Cas dropped his face into his hands. “I swear to God, Gabe…”

“I’m not really the type of person who has intentions.” Dean said honestly. “I just… like being with him. So as long as he wants me around, I’ll be here.”

Gabriel smiled pleasantly. “Smooth answer. Maybe you should look into being a lawyer.”

Dean looked at Bartholomew, and Bartholomew narrowed his eyes a little.

“So,” Gabriel continued, “What are you crazy kids up to tonight?”

“Our friend Jo is playing some music at the Roadhouse.” Cas said. “So we’re going to watch.”

“Word to the wise,” Gabe said, “Do _not_ try to sell or buy illegal contraband in the bathrooms of the Roadhouse. Cause Ellen Harvelle _will_ catch you, and she _will_ threaten to cut your hands off.”

Cas rolled his eyes, but Dean swallowed weakly. He tried not to think about the time that Ellen had caught _him_ buying drugs at her bar. She'd threatened to cut off more than his hands.

Eyes flitting over to Bartholomew, Dean noticed the older Novak watching him carefully; almost as if he was suspecting Dean’s nervous reaction to Gabriel’s remark. Dean looked away quickly, an icy feeling pooling in his stomach.

“Gabe,” Bartholomew said easily, “I’m sure not everyone is aspiring to be the next Hunter S. Thompson, like you. But Cas, things can get a little shifty at the Roadhouse, especially on holiday weekends. So stay out of trouble. I’m working in the ER tonight and I do not want to see you in there.”

Cas’ cheeks reddened, not at all happy to being lectured in front of Dean, but he nodded all the same.

Dean was looking at Bartholomew uneasily. As soon as he said he was working in the ER, something was triggered in his memory. Suddenly, he could see Bartholomew bustling through the halls of Regional Hospital, a doctor’s lab coat fitting snugly overtop of a power suit. And that’s when it hit him.

Dean _had_ seen him before, when he had been in the hospital last summer. Bartholomew hadn’t been one of the doctors working with the rehab kids, but he was in and out pretty often – usually chatting up the psychiatrists and narcotics doctors who worked in the department.

If Dean had seen him, then there was a good possibility that he had seen Dean. Had he made that connection? If he had, he obviously knew that he could get access to Dean’s file, which showcased every grizzly detail of Dean’s past.  

Dean had known that Bartholomew worked at Regional, but it just hadn’t hit him before: how _small_ that hospital was, how close all of the doctors probably were...

Panic settled itself into Dean’s system, coursing with his blood. Apparently satisfied, Bartholomew let Dean and Cas go, and they were able to escape with only a few more jibes from Gabriel. Cas breathed a sigh of relief when they finally left the house, but Dean felt chilled.

If Bartholomew knew all these things about Dean, Dean would put money on the guess that Bartholomew wouldn’t let him know it. He’d want to watch Dean squirm.

 

 

Next week, when the final bell rang at the end of Castiel’s art class, he didn’t even notice it. He sat staring blankly at the sketchbook in front of him, twirling a pencil between his fingers as Anna tried to get his attention.

Things had basically returned to normal at the Novak house. Bartholomew seemed a little more reasonable after meeting Dean, though he kept using words like “tolerable” and “satisfactory” when talking about it to Cas, so Cas wasn’t all that convinced. Gabe probably had something to do with Bartholomew suddenly being civil. But It didn’t feel like Bartholomew was giving in. It felt like he was biding his time.

“CAS.” Anna said loudly, snapping her fingers in front of his face. Cas blinked, looking over at her with wide eyes.

“What?”

“The bell rang.” She said, eyeing him warily. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Cas looked around at the now-empty classroom. Even Mrs. Braeden had disappeared into her office. “I just got distracted. You go – I’ll catch up.”

Anna pursed her lips, but she nodded, before heading for the door. A few seconds after she disappeared, Dean was walking through it, a slightly confused look on his face.

“What, staying after class?” He asked, tilting an eyebrow up. He braced his hands against the table beside Cas, the tendons of his forearms flexing. “Never pegged you as a teacher’s pet, Cas.”

Castiel usually bristled at the term, but it sounded harmless coming from Dean. “Shut up.” He muttered half-heartedly, dropping the pencil and running a hand through his hair. “I just… lost track of time.”

Dean peered over Cas’ shoulder, eyes roaming over the half-finished drawings in his sketchbook. It was a study of a single figure, drawn over and over from different angles and in different poses. Dean took in the soft curving shoulder, the angular jaw, the faint freckles peppered all over the figure’s body. Dean frowned.

“Is that-”

Cas looked up at him sharply, before swiping the book from under his gaze and closing it forcefully.

“No.” He said bluntly and began to push the book into his bag. Dean reached around him, trying to grab at it back before he could.

“Come on, Cas, let me see.” He said, grinning playfully. Cas turned around in his arms, so that he was facing Dean and his notebook was clasped protectively in his hands behind his back. Dean bit his lip, eyes flickering from Cas’ eyes down to his lips.

“Was that me?” He asked.

Cas shook his head. “No.”

“Who was it then?”

Cas’ face reddened. He swallowed. “No one.”

“You’re lying.” Dean laughed softly. He rested his hands on the table behind Cas, slowly leaning into him.

“Fine.” Cas said, trying to look annoyed. His breathing had quickened a little, though he forced himself not to move as Dean moved into his space. “It was you. Okay?”

“Okay. Can I see?” Dean asked quietly, but Cas gripped the notebook tighter in his hands. He looked at Dean, blood pounding faster as he felt his body press against his. He thought of relenting and handing over the book, but this game of keep-away was getting sort of fun. He shook his head.

Dean narrowed his eyes, a sly grin twitching at his lip before he leaned in and kissed him. Dean lips were hot and insistent against his, and Cas’ breath hitched when he felt Dean’s tongue press past his lips and into his mouth. He tilted his head back, letting Dean kiss him deep and dirty and senseless, hardly even aware of his hands slowly prying Cas’ fingers from around the ends of his sketchbook. Cas knew that anyone could walk back into the art studio, or that Mrs. Braeden could come out of her office, but he didn’t have it in him to care.

When Dean pulled away, Cas was breathing hard and his knees were shaking. His eyes were bright with hunger, and Dean bit his lip, offering Cas a dirty smile as he easily slid the sketchbook out of his weak and shaking hands.

Cas accepted defeat without complaint. He flushed deeper when Dean flipped open the pages of the notebook, but his mind was still reeling after that kiss. And now, with his muscles and bones weak, Cas realized Dean had completely shaken the tight knots of anxiety right out of his body.

 

 

Dean thought about those sketches of Castiel’s all the time. The finely drawn lines of muscle, the simple blunt strokes of tendon and bone. It was so strange to see yourself rendered through someone else’s eyes. But really, he was glad he’d managed to see those drawings and the simplicity of them. Because the truth was, Castiel’s art was starting to scare Dean. And that was saying something, seeing as how Dean barely let himself admit fear anymore. But something was happening to Cas’s drawings that he found difficult to ignore.

Really, it was surprising he was given the chance to even notice Cas’ art these days. Most pieces he worked on were whisked away to Mrs. Braeden’s office before anyone could actually see them. He told Dean that it was for an end-of-term project, and that he would see them when Mrs. Braeden hung them in the halls with all the other seniors’ work.

Still, Dean caught glimpses of reference sketches and rough drafts before Cas got the chance to hide them. He was obviously working off a theme, because almost all of the drawings were of angels. And at first glance Dean thought that that was a good thing. Angels were good creatures, right? Hopeful, happy, healing…

Cas’ angels weren’t like that. In fact, if it weren’t for the wings in their backs, Dean wouldn’t think the people in Cas’ drawings were angels at all.

Usually, the people were caught in some kind of motion – falling, cowering, crouching. If you could see their faces, there was always something wrong: some had no eyes, others no mouths. The wings were never perfect, but discolored, and molting, and some were even mutilated and torn from their person’s back.

It was chilling.

What was even more disturbing was that they were beautiful. Pain and sadness were supposed to be ugly. So why couldn’t he look away?

 

 

December always came too fast for Castiel. Nothing about the month held any appeal for him: the nights were too long, Christmases were lonely, and New Year’s had never been his thing. Usually, knowing that another school year was at least half over would bring him some comfort. But this year it was just added anxiety. Because now, school meant Dean, and he couldn’t bear the thought of that being even a little bit over at all.

It was on a grey, impossibly snowy afternoon halfway through December that Cas found himself standing beside a mailbox, watching as Dean dropped off a thick handful of college applications through the slot. The one addressed to NYU was placed on top.

Dean was looking at the mailbox with a slightly scared expression. He glanced up at Cas. “My entire future is in that mailbox right now. Jesus Christ.”

Cas smiled at him. “Relax. You’ll get accepted somewhere, trust me.”

“But what if I don’t?” Dean challenged. “Or what if I get into somewhere else, but not NYU? Then we’d be separated. Or what if some of them get lost in the mail? Shit… I should have bought a lucky rabbit’s foot or something. Just in case.”

Cas raised an eyebrow at him. “Dean Winchester? Superstitious? Wow, who would’ve thought…”

“I am _not_ superstitious.” Dean glared at him. “I just… need all the help I can get, honestly. When are you sending your applications out?”

Cas ducked his head. “I already did, a few days ago.”

“And you didn’t _tell me?”_ Dean’s face was indignant.

“I’m sorry,” Cas did his best to give Dean a pair of wide, puppy eyes. “I was already anxious about it, so if you were anxious too, it would just make me worse.”

“I wouldn’t have been anxious.” Dean narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t sound convincing. Cas snorted.

“Right. Because you’re totally calm right now.”

Dean’s jaw flexed, eyes narrowing even more. “Okay, _fine_. I’m nervous, all right? I know that’s hard to believe, considering my tough and icy exterior. Tough guys have feelings too, you know; we don’t just care about motorcycles and leather jackets. What? Stop laughing.”

Cas pressed his lips together, but his body still shook a little as he tried to stifle his laughter. He couldn’t help himself. Watching Dean rant like this was sort of like watching a puppy growl.

“I’m going to throw a snowball at you.” Dean said seriously.

“No you’re not.” Cas challenged, trying not to grin too wide.

“Wanna bet?” Dean raised an eyebrow, leaning down to scoop up a handful of snow. Cas turned, planning on ducking around the side of the Skyline, before Dean changed his plan of attack: instead of scooping up the snow, he wrapped his arms around Cas’ waist and tackled him to the ground.

The snow around them was deep, and Cas felt it blow beneath the collar of his jacket, settling against his warm skin and melting. Dean straddled Cas’ waist with his knees and pinned his arms above his head, looking down at him with a smug glint in his green eyes.

“That was embarrassingly easy.” He said.

“You tackled me from behind!” Cas argued. “That’s not exactly fair.”

“Who says I fight fair?” Dean asked, tilting his head a little. Biting his lip, Cas tore his arms from Dean’s hands. He felt the fabric of his shirt scraping painfully against the healing cuts on his arms, but he ignored it.

Dean let out a surprised “oomph!” as Cas pushed against his chest, twisting his body so that he had Dean pinned beneath him. _Wow,_ he thought, _growing up with Gabe really does have its perks._

Dean looked up at him, eyes wide with disbelief. His cheeks were flushed pink.

“Shit, Cas.” He breathed, “That was really hot.”

Cas felt himself blush, and he laughed a little.

Suddenly, trickling warmth worked its way down Cas’ arm, and the smile on his face faltered. Frowning, he lifted his right hand off of Dean’s, to see a thin line of red blood working its way into his palm. It slid down his fingers and dropped onto the snow, marring the soft white with dots of vibrant red.

Dean took Cas’ wrist. “Shit, are you bleeding?”

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, and Cas sat numbly, his knees still around his waist.

“I guess so.” Cas muttered stupidly. “But it’s nothing; I’m fine.”

Cas started to pull his hand away, but Dean kept his hold firm and slowly started to push his coat sleeve up, following the line of blood. Cas swallowed, humiliation twisting in his stomach as the cold air hit the exposed skin of his arm.

It had been a few days since he cut and the friction from Dean’s grip had opened up the just-healing wounds. Blood was smeared up Cas’ arm now, wiping across the pale skin that barely ever saw daylight. Dean looked up at Cas sharply. His green eyes were hard and unreadable.

“Cas?” The single word was low and biting. Cas couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say; could barely breathe. So he just sat there, feeling stupid and useless tears pool in his eyes, and tried to swallow around the tightness in his throat.

“Cas.” Dean said it a little louder this time. Cas’ eyes shifted over to his. “What happened? I thought you stopped.”

Cas felt his heart splinter. Dean’s voice was pained; worry creased lines into his brow and around his eyes. And Cas just didn’t understand. Because the whole point of this was that he was only hurting himself. So why didn’t it feel that way?

“It’s not that easy.” Cas shook his head, blinking the wetness out of his eyes. “I tried, but… I don’t know. Old habits die hard.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Dean asked. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because I didn’t know what to say.” Cas choked out. “How do I even try to talk about this?”

“I don’t know, but that’s the point – you try!”

Cas forced his sleeve back down. “Don’t get mad at me. Please.”

“I’m not mad.” Dean said, his eyes widening. “I’m fucking worried.”

“Well, I don’t know what you want me to do.”

Cas looked at Dean, and Dean stared back, his eyes hard. Snowflakes were settling on top of his soft hair.

“Just… stop.” He said quietly. Frustration flared inside Cas, and he started to pull himself up. The snow was starting to make him shiver. Dean reached up, about to stop him, but instead he just let him go.

“Take me home.” Cas said, the words hanging in the winter air. Dean frowned at him, then rose to his feet, brushing the snow from his pants before straightening.

“No.” He said. Cas glared at him.

“No?”

“Not when you’re this upset.” Dean said. “I know Bartholomew’s not home right now. So no, you’re not going home to be by yourself and do God knows what.”

Cas’ jaw flexed, and he clenched his hands into fists. He felt the skin of his right hand close around blood, warm and beginning to dry.

“ _Fine_.”

 

              

Dean pushed the front door open with probably more force than was necessary. Bones trotted over, golden tail swinging, but Dean ignored him.

“This is stupid.” Cas growled, closing the front door. “I have homework to do.”

“Great.” Dean said stubbornly. “Do it here.”

“It’s at home.”

“Then it can wait.” Dean threw his jacket onto the armchair. Cas glared at it, then grudgingly took off his own jacket and did the same. Dean crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, his troubled gaze falling on Cas.

“Dean,” Cas implored, “Are you sure this is smart? I know your dad isn’t working tonight. What if he comes home?”

“Tonight’s dollar draught night at Pam’s.” Dean said bitterly. “He won’t be home for a while.”

Cas looked at him, and Dean watched the anger slowly leeching from his features. Suddenly, he just looked tired. He leaned against the back of the couch across from Dean, his shoulders stooped and defeated. His voice cracked a little when he spoke.

“I really am sorry. I should have told someone. But - that’s a really hard thing to do. But this,” He passed a hand over his arm, “It feels easy. It’s safe, somehow.”

Dean took a shaky breath. Something about Cas’ words struck a chord, because they sounded so familiar. He knew he himself had something along those lines, once.

“Yeah, I get it…” Dean felt his muscles relax, and he passed a hand over his face. “It’s just… you scare the shit out of me, man. What am I supposed to do? Come over to your house and confiscate everything with a sharp edge?”

Cas ducked his head, sadness pulling at the corners of his mouth. Dean’s heart ached, and he stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Gingerly, he reached out, letting his fingers twine with Cas’ loosely.

“Cas, come on.” He implored quietly, and Cas looked up at him. “Talk to me.”

“I still don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll try. Say you’ll stop trying to do this on your own.” Dean’s voice was wrecked. Cas’ eyes searched his, and though his face was still lined with sadness, he nodded.

“Okay. I will.” He whispered. Dean sighed, before closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Cas’.

Shaking a little, Dean reached up, cupping Cas’ face in his hand and pulling him in to kiss him. His lips were warm but hesitant, and the ache inside Dean smarted. He wanted Cas to kiss him like he usually did: hot and deep and searching, so Dean kissed him harder, hungering to pull Cas out of whatever dark place he’d stowed himself away in.

Dean was so lost in the pain of this, that his brain didn’t register the noise of the door opening. It was only when he heard the low, rough voice that he was pulled violently to reality.

“Dean.”

Dean pulled away from Cas, and when his eyes landed on his father standing in the door, he froze. John outright stared, his eyes shooting from Cas to Dean and then back again. His hand was still resting on the front door, and the darkening night was cold and gaping behind him, like a black hole threatening to swallow them all. Fear, raw and hard, worked its way into every inch of Dean’s body, locking his muscles into place.

Numbly, his hand fell from the side of Cas’ face. Cas’ eyes flitted from Dean to John, his face frozen in horror.

“You should get out of here.” Dean said to Cas under his breath, his eyes bright with fear as he handed Cas the keys to the Skyline. Cas swallowed.

“Dean-”

“ _Go_.” Dean made the word into a command. Jesus Christ, was the kid actually planning on sticking around and defending him? Did he not see the murderous look in John’s eyes? “I’ll be fine – just get out of here. I’ll call you later.”

Jaw flexing, Cas ducked his head and slid past John out the front door, disappearing into the growing darkness. He didn’t bother grabbing his jacket. John didn’t take his eyes off Dean, and Dean felt his knees go weak with panic.

The last thing he really remembered was the sound of the front door closing.

 


	14. Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went on a writing binge this weekend, so I thought I'd update quicker since the last chapter ended at a bit of a crazy spot :P 
> 
> On a side note, I tried to write the actual scene between Dean and John. I tried. But I just couldn't do it, it was way too heavy and hard and I ended up stopping halfway through. So I decided to show the next bit from Cas' point of view.

Castiel had to fight every single instinct he had in order to walk out that front door. But he had no idea what else to do. John Winchester was terrifying: a face scruffed by war and grief, menacing broad shoulders, brown eyes so different from Dean’s and darkened with anger. Cas shivered as he climbed into the driver’s seat of the Skyline, and every bone in his body vibrated with _wrong wrong wrong_ because he shouldn’t be here – he should be back inside with Dean.

Fists clenching, Cas looked back at the house. The living room blinds were drawn and he couldn’t see much. He started the car, then sat for a few minutes with his hand on the stick shift. He couldn’t drive away – he couldn’t.

Muscles tense, he shifted into reverse and drove the car a few feet backward, behind the cover of the neighbor’s tree.

Then he waited.

Five minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then twenty.

Cas was starting to feel sick when the front door to the Winchester house suddenly flew open. John stalked to his car, a looming figure in the black night. He pulled open the door to the Impala and got in. The red lights flashed against the windshield of the Skyline as John backed out of the driveway and peeled off down the road.

Cas’ breathing was shallow with panic as he looked back at the house. The windows were just as still as before, and he was about to reach for his door handle when the front door swung open again.

Dean was hunched over as he walked down the walkway, one hand held up to his nose as he tried to pull on his jacket. Cas pushed out of the driver’s seat so forcefully he almost fell over.

“DEAN.” He called, rushing around the car and up to Dean.

“Fuck, Cas.” Dean’s voice was muffled as he talked through his jacket sleeve. “I told you to get out of here. What if he saw you? He’d have beaten the shit out of you, too.”

“Who cares – I’m not leaving you.” Cas frowned at him, gently taking Dean’s arm from his face to survey the damage.

In the dim light from the street lamps, Cas saw the thick stream of blood pouring from Dean’s nose, along with a thin cut on his lip. The side of his face was red and already starting to bruise; his eye was lined with blue.

“ _Shit_ , Dean.” That sick feeling in Cas’ stomach crept up his throat, and he swallowed around it.

“I know.” Dean winced, pulling his arm back and holding it to his nose. “I know.”

 

 

It took the better part of an hour for Dean’s nose to stop bleeding. When it finally did, there was an entire wastebasket full of blood-drenched toilet paper. Dean refused every painkiller Cas offered him, and even refused to put a pack of ice on his face. Cas suspected it was better not to push.

Now, the two sat on Cas’ bed. Dean was absently tracing the cut on his lip with his tongue.

“I knew he wouldn’t take it well.” Dean said quietly.

“I think ‘not taking it well’ is an understatement.” Cas looked down at his hands. “But… what exactly did he say?”

“What you’d expect.” Dean replied. His voice was detached and cold. “My memory’s a little hazy now, but… something about ‘I didn’t raise you this way’, ‘it’s unnatural’, ‘no son of mine’. The usual.”

“Fuck.” Cas swore weakly, dropping his face into his hands.

“I should call Sam.” Dean said, almost to himself. “Tell him not to come home til tomorrow. Give dad time to blow off steam.”

“Dean, you guys can’t live like this.” Cas looked up at him. “You and Sam… you should tell somebody. This isn’t right.”

“I can’t.” Dean shook his head. “I only have a few months left, but Sam? Sam’s got a few years til he’s legal age. We don’t have any relatives – they’ll put him in the system. I can’t do that to him.”

Cas fell quiet. Dean had a point.

Suddenly, from below, there was the sound of the front door opening. Bartholomew must be home. Cas glanced at Dean uneasily, but he wasn’t as nervous as he would have been; compared to John, Bartholomew was a walk in the park.

“Stay here.” Cas said, “I’ll be right back.”

Dean didn’t argue, just nodded and passed a hand over his face.

Down in the kitchen, Bartholomew was rifling through the day’s mail. He’d thrown a stack of paper and files down on the kitchen table, and his face was tired and drawn. Cas stepped under the bright kitchen lights, blinking.

“Bartholomew?” He asked.

“Hey, Cas.” Bartholomew glanced up from the mail. “How was your day?”

“Um, fine.” Cas shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to actually approaching Bartholomew about things. “So, listen… Dean is going to stay here tonight.”

Bartholomew glanced up sharply. “Why?”

“Because he can’t be at home.” Cas replied cryptically. He figured the less Bartholomew knew about Dean’s home life, the better. Bartholomew looked like he was about to argue, before he took a breath and his shoulders stooped a little.

“All right. Fine.” He said, and Cas frowned. He was really expecting to have to fight more about this. He looked around uncertainly.

“Okay, well-” His voice broke off, eyes narrowing as he got a better look at the stack of papers Bartholomew had brought home. He took in pictures of pristine houses with green lawns, and paragraphs of text and stats beside them. His stomach twisted uncomfortably. “What are those?”

Bartholomew looked at the papers, and then up at Cas. “Well, I guess now is a good a time as any.” He said, straightening as he looked at Cas. “I’ve been offered a job at another hospital. I was going to pass, but after some thought, I’ve decided that a move could be a good thing. So I’m going to take it.”

“You’re moving?”

“We’re moving.” Bartholomew corrected. Cas paled.

“What? Where?”

“Pasadena.”

“ _California_?” Cas felt his eyes widen.

Bartholomew nodded. “If things go well, we’ll be there by January.”

“I’m not moving.” Cas shook his head. “I only have half a year left here anyway. Why the hell do you want to move?”

Bartholomew pursed his lips, crossing his arms as he looked at Cas. “Because it’s what I think is best. Cas, I thought you were doing better here, but it turns out I was wrong.”

“What are you talking about?” Cas started to shake. He wondered if this was how animals felt when they were cornered.

“I’m talking about the fact that I found a completely full bottle of medication in your bathroom this morning, which means you haven’t been taking it for _weeks._ I’m talking about how you’re running around with a _Winchester_ , doing God knows what.”

Cas swallowed. “What does Dean have to do with any of this?”

“I know him, Cas. Dean was at Regional last summer, drying out. Did he tell you that?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It is when he’s dating my brother.” Bartholomew’s voice started to rise. “So I pulled his file at work. And oh man, do you know how to pick ‘em, Cas: substance abuse, alcoholism, depression, delinquency. I’m putting my foot down. Rapid City is obviously not working for you anymore, and he’s not making things any better.”

Cas was breathing hard. He glared at Bartholomew, putting every ounce of venom he could muster into his voice. “You don’t know shit.”

“He isn’t going to matter, you know.” Bartholomew said coldly. “Princeton is less than a year away, and you need to be ready. You’ll meet new people there; make new connections.”

“I’m not going to Princeton.” Cas nearly spat the words, actually enjoying the shocked look on Bartholomew’s face. “I sent away applications to art schools. What the hell am I going to do at Princeton, Bartholomew? I wouldn’t fit in there.”

“You’ll fit in there because you’re a _Novak._ ” Bartholomew slammed a fist down on the table.

“You say that now.” Cas argued. “But I’ve never actually felt like a part of this family. Everyone knows it – I’m the goddamn black sheep.”

“It doesn’t matter if you get in anywhere else!” Bartholomew was nearly shouting now. “I’m not going to pay for it – Dad won’t pay for it.”

“That won’t stop me. I don’t need your fucking money.”

Cas turned and fled from the kitchen, anger and panic making him shake. When he turned the corner, he almost ran into Dean, who was heading for the front door.

“Dean?” He blinked. “Where are you going?”

“Pam just called me.” Dean said. “My dad’s pretty out of it at her place. Apparently someone called the cops. I gotta get there before them – my dad can’t be arrested again.”

“You’re just going to go to him?” Cas demanded before he could stop himself. “After what he did to you?”

Dean froze. “Look, I know it’s messed up. But things really won’t be good for me and Sam if he’s stuck in jail.”

Cas processed this. He reached for his shoes and started to pull them on.

“What are you doing?” Dean frowned at him.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Like _hell_ you are.”

“I’m not letting you go alone.” Cas said. “And from the sounds of it, your dad won’t notice if I’m there or not.”

Dean pressed his lips together, but he didn’t argue further. Cas pulled on a hoodie from the hall closet, before the two boys disappeared quietly out the front door.

 

   

Dean couldn’t quite recall when it had started snowing this much. Was it before Cas had found him in the front yard? After they made it to Cas’ house? Either way, the flakes were heavy and thick now, nearly blocking out the road entirely. Dean turned the brights of the Skyline on, but all he saw was snow reflected back at him. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. When he flicked on the radio, a smooth voice informed him they were under a blizzard warning.

Unfortunately, the weather wasn’t his only problem.

“Cas,” He said, glancing over at him, “I heard you and your brother fighting. About moving.”

Cas’ jaw clenched. “I’m not moving.”

“It was a pretty dick thing to do, I get it.” Dean replied. He pulled onto the highway, cursing the fact that Pam’s bar lied on the outskirts of town. “But Cas… he has a point.”

Cas looked at him incredulously. “About what? You? Dean, he doesn’t know jack-shit about you.”

“He knows enough.” Dean’s voice was resigned. “And he’s right. Me, the drugs, my shitty family. Maybe things will be better for you if you move away. Maybe you’ll be happier.”

“That’s not how it works.” Cas shook his head, his eyes wide with panic. “Dean, I want to be here with you. I’m happy with _you_.”

Dean felt tears burning at his eyes. He blinked them away. “I’m not good for you, Cas. If I was, I would have been able to stop you from hurting yourself. I would be able to help you. But I can’t.”

“It’s not like that.” Cas argued. Dean felt a single tear roll down his cheek, and he rubbed it away, the bruises on his face smarting. The white flakes in front of the car blurred. “Doesn’t it matter what _I_ want? Don’t you care that I want to stay here with you?”

“Of course I care.” Dean gritted out. “But Cas, it doesn’t matter – I can’t stand in the way of you getting better. Not anymore.”

“What do you mean, ‘not anymore’? I was miserable before you! And what will happen to you after I leave? Huh? You’ll just live in your father’s shadow, take sleeping pills every night to get by?”

“Stop.” Dean flinched, but though Cas’ words were biting, he was right. With Cas gone, Dean would go off the rails. He knew he would. Everything had started to get better once Cas was around; everything had started to feel _worth it._

“You know I’m right.” Cas insisted, eyes panicked but stubborn.

 " _F_ _uck_ , Cas-”

Suddenly, a flash of light was born out of the darkness. Dean’s heart all but stopped as the truck materialized in front of them, sliding steadily into the road from the right. Cas’ hands reached out for the dash.

“DEAN.”

Dean could pinpoint the exact second when he felt the car’s tires lose traction with the road. He instinctively pressed on the brakes and turned the wheel, knowing that hitting the vehicle head-on would be the worst possible thing. Then the Skyline hit sheer black ice. In the blink of an eye the reassuring weight of rubber on asphalt disappeared, and the car was weightless and sailing, the back end swerving as the car sped faster toward the truck.

The last things Dean remembered were the splitting sounds of crushing metal and glass, the bang of airbags deploying, searing hot pain, and the intense hope that he’d swerved the car enough that nothing had hit the passenger side.

He remembered smelling burning oil and rubber. And then he let go of his hold on everything, feeling the black press down and take him.

 


	15. Fractures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, thanks for all the encouragement and compliments, guys! I had so much fun writing this fic, I'm kinda sad I'm almost finished. 
> 
> Anyways here, have another chapter :)

Fuck, Dean’s head hurt. It pulsed and throbbed with dull pain, the kind that radiated down the back of his neck and pressed against his eyelids. His eyes felt too heavy to open, and his mouth was uncomfortably dry.

_Wow,_ Dean thought, _you’ve had some bad hangovers, but this is pretty bad. Way to fall off the wagon, dumbass._

But even though it felt like a hangover, Dean couldn’t remember drinking the previous night. Actually, he was having a hard time placing what had happened before this at all.

With a great deal of effort, he managed to pry his eyes open. All he saw was blurry white, and he blinked, trying to clear his vision.

Slowly, he became aware of a dozen different sensations: burning pain along his arms, aching across his ribs, and a strange, heavy feeling around his left leg. As his vision cleared, he could make out blinking fluorescent lights on the ceiling above him.

He tried to lift his head, but the movement triggered pain to ripple along the muscles of his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned.

“Dean?” The voice was smooth and familiar, and just about the best thing Dean had ever heard in his fucking life.

“Sam?” His own voice was terrible: it cracked and rasped on its way out. Sam’s face appeared above him, his eyes tired, but lined with relief. “What the hell happened?”

“You were in a car accident.” Sam said, watching Dean carefully. Suddenly, the events of the night before hurtled back to him: fighting with Cas, his dad coming home, going to Cas’ place, leaving to go find John, Cas insisting he go with him…

_Cas._

“Where’s Cas?” Dean sat up, ignoring any protest his body gave him. “Is he alright?”

“He’s fine.” Sam soothed, placing a firm hand on Dean’s shoulder. “He’s down the hall. You’re in worse shape, actually.”

Dean took a minute to let the relief sink in. _Cas is fine, it’s fine, he’s here…_ He looked around, at the pale hospital walls and the various bits of equipment beside his bed. Then he looked down at himself, surveying the damage. His eyes fell on the thick cast wrapped around his leg.

“Oh, fuck-”

“Broken leg.” Sam said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and smiling apologetically. “Along with, uh, lacerations on your arms from the broken glass; it cut you to shit, dude, you lost a lot of blood. And there are bruises on your ribs from the steering wheel. You got a concussion, too, but they said it’s pretty mild. And you got some pretty nasty whiplash. But Dean, they’re saying you were really lucky – everyone was. Even the people in the truck only had mild injuries.”

Dean scowled down at his arms. They were covered in white gauze. Then his eyes landed on the IV needle poking beneath his skin, and he felt himself go green.

“Yeah,” Sam said, watching Dean’s face, “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that.”  
  
“I’m gunna be sick.” Dean pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, eyes trailing from the IV needle up to the hanging plastic bag beside the bed. He looked at Sam sharply. “Am I on pain meds?”

Sam swallowed, then nodded. “Sorry, man. You didn’t really have a choice.”

Dean dropped his face into his hands. “Shit.”

“Dean, it’s alright.” Sam pulled an armchair up beside the bed and sat down. “You’re in the hospital from a freaking car accident. I’m pretty sure this doesn’t constitute a relapse.”

Dean looked at Sam and nodded grudgingly. The two of them fell quiet.

“Where’s dad?” Dean asked.

“Jail.” Sam replied bitterly. “They put him in the drunk tank for the night. He’ll be out in a few hours. Apparently he got into a fight at Pam’s, but no one pressed any charges.”

Dean was staring down at the bandages on his arms. He didn’t say anything.

Suddenly, Bobby appeared in the doorway, two coffees in hand.

“Dean,” He said, voice heavy with relief. He put the coffees down on the table beside the bed, and then reached out, laying his hand gently on the un-bruised side of Dean’s face. “How’re doing, kiddo?”

“I’m fine.” Dean looked up at Bobby, totally unused to the outright concern on his face. “A little worse for wear, but I’ll survive.”

Bobby let out a breath, patting Dean’s face once before dropping his hand. “You scared the ever-living hell out of us, kid. Don’t do that again.”

“Sorry.” Dean said sheepishly.

“What were you doing driving in a freaking blizzard?” Bobby demanded, annoyance pulling at his features. Dean relaxed – _that_ was more like the Bobby he knew.

“I was going to get dad.” Dean looked down at his arms again. “He was drunk off his ass at Pam’s.”

Bobby shook his head, annoyance turning to outright rage. “Dean, if you would’ve gotten yourself killed over your old man…” He stopped, apparently too mad for words.

“I know. But what was I supposed to do?” Dean looked from Bobby to Sam. Sam didn’t meet his gaze.

“Listen, Dean,” Bobby started, and Dean tensed apprehensively. “I know this accident dinged you up pretty good. But your face – that wasn’t from no accident.”

Dean looked away, but kept his mouth shut.

“What was it this time?” Bobby asked. Sam glanced up at Dean, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “I know John can be rough, but this is bad. Even for him.”

Dean took a breath, then figured there was literally no reason to keep this a secret anymore. “He found out about me and Cas.” He replied quietly.

Sam closed his eyes. He’d probably suspected as much. Dean looked up at Bobby, expecting confusion; expecting to have to explain himself all over again. But instead, Bobby looked as vindicated as Sam.

“Figured as much.” He said. Dean’s face went blank with shock.

“You knew?”

“Yeah, I knew. Dumbass. You boys aren’t exactly what you’d call sneaky.” He rolled his eyes. “I mean, when he started hanging around with you when you were working I thought you were just friends. But I got eyes, kid. It didn’t take long for me to notice how you two are around each other.”  
  
“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Wasn’t my place.” Bobby shrugged. “I knew if and when you wanted to talk, you knew where to find me. I tried to get it out of you that time you were staying at Cas’, but you were as stubborn as you always are.”

Dean fell quiet, intense gratitude for Bobby Singer coursing through him.

“Anyway,” Bobby went on, face growing serious again, “I was talking with Ellen while you were out. And I should have done this a long time ago, but I think it’s high time you boys come and stay at our place for a while. Just til things calm down.”

Dean looked up at Bobby, then at Sam. Shakiness rattled through him, crawling up his spine, but in that moment he couldn’t tell whether what he was feeling was relief or defeat. 

 

Cas shifted for the hundredth time, trying in vain to get comfortable. He looked down at the skin of his arms and the bits of collarbone that he could see. They were splattered with blue and purple bruises, apparently the result of the Skyline’s airbag and the crumpled-in dashboard. Cas had always thought bruises were sort of pretty, in a morbid way, but now he was starting to have second thoughts. The thought _be careful what you wish for_ ran through his head.

He glanced impatiently up at the door. Doctors and nurses passed by idly, but no one stopped in. Really, he should have been released by now. He’d been awake for two hours already, and he felt fine: the bruises the worst of it, along with a tiny concussion and a few mildly fractured ribs. Sam had been poking his head in and out, giving updates about Dean, and now Cas was downright fed up with being tied down to a hospital bed. He wanted to see Dean for himself.

Cas was looking at the nurse call button, wondering what his chances were of sweet-talking his way into a walk down the hall, when Bartholomew came in. He was wearing his white lab coat, the silver name plaque glinting where it was pinned to his shirt.

Cas had already given silent thanks that Bartholomew hadn’t insisted on being Cas’ doctor. He was enough of a control freak to throw any concern about “conflict of interest” to the wind. But luckily, he’d stepped back and let an older doctor see to Cas, while he watched from the sidelines.

“Can I leave now?” Cas asked him bluntly. He glanced at the IV in his arm in distaste. “Dr. Tran already gave me my prescription. It was just a mild fracture, right?”

“Right.” Bartholomew crossed his arms and leaned against the table at the end of the hospital bed. His face was gaunt and tired, and he suddenly looked younger than Cas was used to. “It was an incomplete fracture, thank God. It’ll take a few weeks to heal - you just need to rest and make sure you don’t over-exert yourself.”

“Great. So get me out of here.” Cas’ mouth was set into a stubborn line. He hated hospitals, and couldn’t shake the panicked feeling at actually being _in_ one. He needed to see Dean.

“Cas, do you realize how lucky you are?” Bartholomew narrowed his eyes at him. Cas just stared at him blankly. He couldn’t remember much of the accident: he remembered feeling the car swerving, and then the jolt of impact. He remembered the ear-splitting crunch of metal, the pressure of the door caving in against him. Things went black right after something hard hit the side of his head.

“I was talking to Sheriff Mills.” Bartholomew went on. “She was first on the scene. According to the accident report, the driver’s side hit first; that’s where most of the impact was. Then the truck swung and hit your side. Your car is totaled, by the way. But she said if you guys would have hit the truck head-on, things would have been a lot worse.”

Cas looked down.  

“Do you have any idea how fast you two were going?” Bartholomew’s voice wasn’t angry; it was more scared. “If you were going the speed limit, it must have been at least 60 miles an hour.” 

“I can’t remember much of it.” Cas said quietly. “That truck came out of nowhere.”

“According the driver, he tried to stop at the stop sign to cross the highway. There was so much ice on the road, though, he just slid through. Cas, you could have been killed.”

“But I wasn’t.” Cas ran a hand through his hair, wincing when he felt a bump near the back of his head.

“No, you weren’t – I’m just saying, you have a lot to be thankful for.”

Cas looked up at Bartholomew. His older brother didn’t look angry, just relieved, and Cas had no idea how to respond.

“Can you just sign me out of here, please?” Cas pleaded again. “I hate hospitals.”

Now, Bartholomew looked down, discomfort passing across his face. Cas tensed.

“What?” He asked. Bartholomew reached a hand up, rubbing his thumb across his lip before looking up at Cas again.

“Cas… I’ve messed things up with you. I think I jumped the gun last night, but I’m just trying so hard to figure out what’s best for you.”

“No, you’re trying to _fix_ me, which I’m not even sure is possible.” Cas snapped.

“Well, I’m a doctor, so that’s kind of my job.” Bartholomew replied. “I don’t think I’m doing it very well, though. So… I was talking with Dr. Tran, and I’ve recommended that you be kept for a little longer. For observation.”

“Observation?” Cas paled at the word. “Why?”

“Well, given the fact that you’ve stopped your medication, and I now know that you’re self-harming again, I think maybe you just need a little help. To get back on your feet.”

Cas looked down at his arms again. They had been wrapped in brand new white gauze, but the cuts felt old and painless compared the various aches in his body now.

“Cas.” Bartholomew said, his voice heavy, and Cas looked up at him. “You’re not a legal adult, so if I say the word, they’ll keep you here whether you want it or not. But I don’t want to do that. I want this to be your decision.”

Cas didn’t say anything, just watched his older brother uncertainly, not trusting this sudden onset of compassion.

“It’ll only be for a week.” Bartholomew went on. “You can rest. Talk to some psychiatrists. You won’t have any access to sharp objects, which could be good. And then, if things go well – we’ll talk about calling off the move.”

Cas’ face went blank. “Really? You’d do that?”

Bartholomew took a breath and nodded. “Yeah. But you gotta put in the effort.”

Cas blinked, trying to process this. The thought of staying at the hospital – missing school, missing Dean, being cooped up; essentially trapped – made a suffocating feeling press down on his chest.

“Think about it.” Bartholomew said. He patted Cas’ leg and pushed away from the bed. “I’ll be back in a little bit.”

   

Dean’s doctor was a delightful little woman with black hair and sharp eyes. She talked with a sort of self-assuredness that had Dean instantly grateful she’d been working the ER when they’d crashed. The name plaque on her jacket said “Dr. Linda Tran”.

“So, Dean.” She said, flipping through the file at the end of his bed, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Dean shrugged. He actually felt a little cold and exposed in only that stupid hospital gown. He longed for a thick flannel shirt and some jeans. “I mean, my leg hurts like a bitch, but I’m sort of used to the headache.”

Dr. Tran smiled. “Well, that’s a silver lining for you. I already went through this with Mr. Singer, but I wanted to talk with you, as well.”

She pulled a few thick, black pages from his file and clipped them to the x-ray board beside his bed. She flicked on the light.

“Your femur is completely broken, but it was a clean break.” She gestured to the ghost-like white figures on the x-rays, and Dean squinted, struggling to discern what was bone and what wasn’t. “Still, this sort of break requires surgery. But we aren’t going to worry about that now. Surgery isn’t ideal when you have a concussion, and since the skin isn’t broken, we can wait it out with the cast.”

Dean just looked at her. “Surgery?”

“It’s not as scary as it sounds.” Dr. Tran said gently, flicking off the x-ray light. “Just a quick procedure to nail the bone in place. The main point is that, all in all, your injuries are quite minor. You’ll notice you have a few stitches on your arms from the broken driver’s side window, and your ribs are bruised, but not broken.”

Dr. Tran put the x-rays back in his file. “Your concussion, too, is very mild. Just don’t over-exert yourself: don’t watch TV too much or read for too long. Get plenty of sleep. No sports, no fights, and definitely no driving. Now Dean,” Dr. Tran looked at him, suddenly serious, and Dean straightened. “I’m aware you have a rocky history with medication. But with your injuries, you really can’t go without them. Right now you’ll be on painkillers and antibiotics. To make things more comfortable for you, though, I’m only prescribing a small amount at time, so you won’t be tempted to overdue things.”

Dean smiled, but his stomach was still uneasy. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Dr. Tran smiled back. “Now, you are under strict orders to rest for at least the next two days. No school, no parties, no leaving the house for extended periods of time. Just rest. I’ll check in with you next week and we can talk about that surgery.”

Dean felt himself go green again, but he nodded, and Dr. Tran smiled at him again before turning and leaving the room.

Dean had never really had any actual injuries before. Sure, he’d broken his fingers plenty of times and he was practically best friends with bruises, cuts and scrapes, but up until this point, he’d never even sprained a joint.

He hated his cast instantly. The damn thing went all the way up his leg, and he nearly fell out of the hospital bed when he tried to get down. It was a good thing Sam had caught him in time. It took every ounce of willpower and stubbornness Dean had to get dressed by himself, but he’d be damned if he was going to ask for help with that, too. 

The crutches were almost worse. He felt off-balance and awkward with them, staggering out into the hallway with Sam in tow. To his right, Bobby stood at the reception desk, a nurse handing him a few bottles of pills. To his left, there was a hallway with more doors.

“Which room is Cas in?” He asked roughly. Sam glanced at him.

“Dean, I don’t think-”

“Which room?” He asked again, his voice raising. Sam swallowed.

“Second from the right.”

Dean immediately pushed off down the hall.

 

Cas sat with his head in his hands. The nurses had brought him things to read – magazines, old paperback books – but they sat untouched by his bed. His ribs ached and it hurt to breathe. Every time he tried to take a deep breath, the resulting pain was so sharp that it left him dizzy. He was focusing on trying to keep his breaths slow and painless when there was a soft knock on the door. He looked up.

Dean stood, his arms draped over a set of crutches. He was wearing the same clothes as last night, only now his flannel shirt was rolled up to reveal thick bandages along his arms. Cas could see dried blood splattered across the fabric. One leg of his jeans was ripped open, making room for a long white cast. The bruises on his face had darkened through the night.

“Heya, Cas.” Dean smiled thinly.

“Holy shit.” Cas croaked, both relieved and pained at the sight of him. “Are you all right?”  
  
“Me? I’m fine.” Dean made his way slowly into the room, stopping beside Cas’ bed. “I broke the shit out of my leg, and these crutches are a pain in the ass already. But forget about me – what about you?”

Cas swallowed, glancing down at the bruises on his arms. “Well, I got the shit kicked out of me by an air bag. And apparently I fractured a few ribs.”

“Ouch.” Dean’s brow creased in concern. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“They’re minor fractures.” Cas shrugged. “If I don’t breathe, I don’t feel it at all.”

Cas tried to smile, but it felt wrong. Dean just looked at him sadly, and Cas glanced around, trying to dispel the sudden heaviness in the room. His eyes fell again on the bandages on Dean’s arms.

“What about your arms?” He asked. Dean looked down at them.

“Oh, I guess the driver’s window broke and sort of ground itself into my arms. Sam said they had to wash shards of glass out and everything. But I’m all stitched up.” Dean looked from his arms to Cas’, and smiled in amusement. “We’ll match now.”

Cas snorted softly, but he was too tired to really get mad at Dean’s morbid sense of humor. He let the silence fall around them, and Dean fidgeted, before he finally said,

“I’m really sorry, Cas.”

Cas looked at him sharply. “How is this your fault?”

“I shouldn’t have gone to pick up my old man. And I definitely shouldn’t have let you come with me. And I was the one driving, wasn’t I?”

“Bartholomew said if you wouldn’t have swerved, we would have been way worse off. So in my books, your driving is what saved us.”

Dean shook his head, his face still hard. “Still. I’m not exactly good luck.”

“I think you are.” Cas insisted stubbornly. “Everyone I’ve talked to today keeps saying how lucky we were that we weren’t killed!”

Dean winced, but he didn’t say anything. Silence fell for a few more seconds.

“So you got sprung, then?” Cas asked, changing the subject. Dean nodded.

“Yeah. Sam and I are staying with Bobby for a while – my old man’s got some shit to figure out, I guess.”

“Good.” Cas said, relief plain in his voice. “That’s good, Dean.”

“Yeah. When are you getting out? You gotta be going stir crazy in here.”

Cas dropped his gaze, fidgeting with the ends of his bandages. Dean watched him.

“I might be staying for a little bit longer.” Cas said quietly.

“What? Why – what’s wrong?” Panic worked its way into Dean’s voice.

“Nothing, really – I mean, nothing new. Bartholomew just wants me to stay for observation. He said it would only be a week. Just so I can get everything under control again.” Cas glanced at his bandages miserably. Dean was quiet for a moment.

“Well… that’s good then, right? It will only be a week. It might do you good to have some time to think.”

“Think about what?” Cas asked warily. “You’re not still on about what Bartholomew said, are you?”

Dean’s jaw flexed, and he looked away. “Maybe it would be for the best.”

“How?” Cas demanded, flinching a little when his ribs screamed in protest. But he kept going. “If moving was for the best, it would _feel_ like it. I’m not getting any good vibes from this; it feels wrong. Don’t you feel it?”

Dean looked back up at Cas. “It doesn’t matter what I feel.”

Cas wanted to scream at him, to yell and argue, but his breath was quickening and the pain in his ribs was making him see spots. He cringed, pressing a hand to his side.

“Fuck, Cas, you’re going to hurt yourself even more.” Dean said miserably. “I should go. Just… maybe we should take the week, all right? Get some distance. Think things over.”

Cas looked at Dean. His jaw was set stubbornly, and his green eyes were hard and closed-off. Recognizing temporary defeat, Cas nodded. Dean turned to leave, and Cas buried his face in his hands, not being able to bear the sight of Dean disappearing out the door and down the hall.

 

Dean couldn’t get down the hall fast enough. He cursed those stupid fucking crutches, and his stupid fucking broken leg, along with everyone in the hall who looked at him with pity. He was _fine,_ goddammit.

Bobby was waiting with Sam down the hall, both of them looking unbelievably tired. It occurred to Dean that he didn’t even know what time it was. According to Sam, he’d been out for about nine hours. That should put them somewhere around late morning.

He reached the end of the hall, and was about to make a beeline for Bobby, when a doctor appeared through another door and nearly collided with him.

“Oh, sorry,” He said, leaning out of Dean’s way.

“No, it’s-” Dean began, but then stopped cold when he looked up into the drawn face of Bartholomew Novak.

“Dean.” He said, the name still uncertain on his lips. Dean stiffened. “I’m actually glad I caught you. How are you doing?”

Dean glanced down at his cast and bandages, caught a little off-guard at Bartholomew’s sincere tone. “Fine. I’m still in one piece, so…”

“Good.” Bartholomew nodded, scratching his jaw nervously. Dean noticed the faint hint of a blonde beard beginning to grow, and he wondered how long Bartholomew had been at the hospital. “Look, Dean, I wanted to talk with you.”

“Talk with me?” Dean repeated warily.

“Yes. I was talking to Sheriff Mills – she was the first officer on the scene at your crash.” He explained. Dean just looked at him.

“She was telling me about the accident report.” Bartholomew went on, “And she was a little confused. That truck came in from the right, so the only logical option is that the passenger side would have hit first. But the driver side did.”

Dean tensed. “Yeah. So?”

“So…” Bartholomew paused, searching Dean’s face. “Did you swerve so your side would hit first?”

“It happened pretty fast. I can’t remember.” Dean replied shortly. He refused to let anyone paint him as some kind of hero in this; especially since he shouldn’t have been on the roads that night at all.

“Still.” Bartholomew said. “Anyone else driving – I’m not sure what might have happened. So you have my gratitude. Really.”

Bartholomew held out his hand, and Dean hesitated a second before taking it and shaking.

“If you need anything.” Bartholomew went on. “You know where to find me.”

“Thanks.” Dean managed, completely baffled. Bartholomew smiled, before patting him on the shoulder and pushing passed him down the hall.

 

 


	16. Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, it looks like we've finally reached the last official chapter. The next one is more like an epilogue, so I'll add it right away. Thank you so much for all the comments and encouragement through this story, it's the first actual story I've ever posted online, so it was a little scary! But it was tons of fun. 
> 
> Soo, I really hadn't PLANNED on any actual sexy times to happen in this fic, but it sort of just... happened. 
> 
> Also, the quote mentioned in this chapter is from the novel "The Outsiders" by SE Hinton (my favourite book) and the song referenced with "poison arms" is "Angeles" by Elliot Smith, which is, of course, also covered by Jensen Ackles.

Bobby said it was temporary. So why did everything feel so final? Dean watched, utterly useless, as Sam began to gather up their things from the house. He packed their clothes and pictures and the shampoos and soap from the bathroom. Dean hobbled around on his crutches, doing what he could: making sure the windows were latched, turning the heat down, unplugging random appliances.

“How long do you think it’ll be til he’s back?” Dean asked, looking around at the quiet house. Cas’ jacket was still sitting on the armchair, and he picked it up, tucking it under his arm. Sam had his hand on the front door, Bones wagging his tail at his feet. The engine of Bobby’s truck rattled outside.

“I don’t know.” Sam answered. “I don’t think there’s a set time limit for rehab. I guess… when he’s ready?”

Dean’s jaw clenched, and he nodded. Sam pushed open the door and Dean followed, squinting against the bright winter sunlight.

It was a blessing that Bobby’s old farmhouse was so big. Sam and Dean were given the bigger bedroom upstairs down the hall from Jo, and Bobby and Ellen had the master bedroom on the main floor. Things were mostly quiet those first few days. Even Jo was subdued, tiptoeing around Dean whenever he managed to emerge from his room. She and Sam went to school, bringing homework home for Dean each day. Bobby spent his days in the garage, and Ellen was away at the Roadhouse each night.

Sharing a living space with so many people, after so many years of being alone, should have been disconcerting. But Dean hardly noticed at all. He shut himself away in his and Sam’s room, shamefully grateful of the tiny prescription Dr. Tran had given him. He swallowed each pill like it was a godsend. The pain of his broken body and torn skin didn’t lessen; he just grew accustomed to it.

He tried to distract himself, but that was just it: he _tried._ It didn’t matter how loud he turned his music up or how deep he buried himself in homework: every time he let his guard down, he heard Cas’ voice again and saw him sitting in that hospital bed.

Dean stood by what he said. Cas was good: he was so fucking good, with his amazing talent and his soothing voice and those brave, bright blue eyes that could make you melt within a second. Dean wanted to deserve him. He wanted that more than he’d wanted anything, but everything seemed to be working against them. Dean had suspected from the get-go that he wasn’t good for Cas, and life just seemed to be proving him right, time and again.

He recalled hearing a song once that sang about “poison arms”, and Dean couldn’t help the conviction that he had something like that: poison arms, poison hands. Everything he touched turned to ashes and dirt.

He would be damned if he let that happen to Cas.

All in all, he was at a low point by the time he went back to school at the end of the week. Jo was walking studiously beside him, slowing her pace to match Dean’s stunted gate.

“I wish Bobby would let me drive.” Dean growled. “I only broke my left leg. I can still drive.”

“Calm down, grumpy pants.” Jo rolled her eyes. “Is it so hard for you and Sam to catch a ride from me? We’re leaving from the same house – it wouldn’t make any sense for you to drive.”

“Still, it beats us rolling up to school in that old Mustang, looking like some twisted version of the freaking Brady Bunch.” He ranted. As they neared his locker, he caught sight of a group of papers and cards tacked to it.

“Ah, what the hell, Jo?” He groaned, stopping in front of the locker and glaring at it. The cards attached were all hand-drawn, varying messages of _Get Well Soon!_ scribbled across them. One had a particularly detailed sketch of Batman with a cast on identical to Dean’s. Anna’s signature was in the corner.

“Charlie’s idea.” Jo beamed, ignoring Dean’s surliness. Dean scowled, pulling the cards off one by one, but he didn’t crumple them or throw them out. He just opened his locker and set them on the top shelf.

“You guys didn’t have to do that.” He muttered.

“We wanted to.” Jo shrugged. “You should see Cas’ locker. He’s gunna die of embarrassment when he gets back.”

Dean felt himself pale at the mention of Cas, but he didn’t say anything. Jo held his crutches as he leaned against his locker and stuffed his jacket inside, before pulling out a few textbooks.

The school’s heat was cranked up, and he started to feel stuffy beneath the thick black hoodie he was wearing. He hadn’t wanted to wear it, but it was one of the only clean bits of clothing with long sleeves he had left. He thought of throwing caution to the wind and walking around the school with the healing sutures on his arms exposed, but then he thought of the looks people would give him. He pulled the sleeves of it down farther, an ache for Cas burning low in his gut.

He slammed the door of his locker shut and took his crutches from Jo, starting the long and torturous hobble to his AP Literature class.

“You don’t have to walk with me.” He said to Jo, ignoring some of the stares of the passing students.

“I want to.” Jo said easily, and Dean felt a sudden surge of affection for her.

Finally, they rounded the corner and Dean’s classroom came into sight. He was thinking how his good leg was starting to cramp up, when he lifted his eyes and stopped dead in his tracks.

The wall beside his Lit class was usually blank and empty. But now, a giant piece of canvas was hung up, stretching out across the entire expanse of the wall. The background was painted a brown so dark it was nearly black, and in the middle and stooping near the bottom, was the top half of a torso. The muscles and bones of the man’s back were painted meticulously, so real it could have been a photograph. He had his head bowed, the knobs of his spine poking against his skin, and he had his hands clasped behind his head, tensed fingers buried in his dark hair.

This only took up about a third of the painting. The rest of it was wings. They stretched out from the man’s back, angled and a little crooked, as if it hurt to hold them. The cream-coloured feathers were ruffled and molting; they stuck out at painful angles and fell toward the bottom of the canvas.

Dean felt like he was falling. Shaking, he used what muscle strength he had left to close the distance between him and the canvas. He approached it slowly, letting his head fall back as he looked up at it, taking in the smaller details.

Up close, Dean saw that the ends of the dislodged feathers were tipped with deep red. Unease prickled through him as he looked at the wings. Now, he could see thin lines of dark red seeping out from the tips of feathers, sliding down the wing’s layers and dripping to the ground. Dean’s nose twitched, half expecting to smell the blood on the air. His eyes fell onto the signature in the corner, the letters tiny compared to the scale of the angel: CASTIEL NOVAK.

Quietly, Jo walked up beside him.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” She asked quietly. Dean took a shaky breath and swallowed around the tightness in his throat.

“Yeah.” He whispered in a strained voice, then glanced at her. “You go – I’ll catch up.”

Jo’s eyebrows were furrowed with concern, looking from Dean to the painting. But she nodded and went ahead into the classroom.

Slowly, the hallways began to empty. The bell rang. But Dean didn’t move. He stared up at the angel, eyes roaming over the torn feathers, following the thin lines of blood seeping out from beneath them.

_Why didn’t you call me?_ Dean’s own voice came back to him.

_Because_ _I didn’t know what to say._

Dean couldn’t take his eyes off that painting, no matter how much pain was twisting in his gut.

Cas had been trying to talk this whole time.

 

   

If Castiel had been nervous about driving before, those nerves had quickly turned to downright hatred. When he was released from the hospital the next week, Anna picked him up in her Honda, since Bartholomew’s shift wasn’t over for another four hours. It was all he could do not to grip the door handle and squeeze his eyes shut for the entire ride.

“Are you alright?” Anna asked, glancing over at him. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“I’m fine.” Cas said through gritted teeth. “Could you just go the speed limit, please?”

Anna frowned at the speedometer. “Cas… I’m going five miles _under_ the speed limit.”

Cas swallowed. “It doesn’t seem like it.”

“Is this your first time being in a car since the accident?”

“Sorry, the hospital didn’t exactly let me out for joyrides.” Cas pinched the bridge of his nose, focusing on taking deep breaths that didn’t make his ribs sear with pain.

“Ha-ha, very funny.” Anna said. “But seriously, Cas – how’re you doing?”

Cas dropped his hand. “I’m fine.”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

“Well, it’s the truth. I’m not dead, but I don’t feel like a million bucks, either. So I’m fine. Just fine.”

Anna pursed her lips, but didn’t say anything else. She switched lanes on the freeway, and Cas stiffened at the shifting movement of the car. The exit to Cas’ neighborhood was coming up ahead.

“Do you think we could make a quick stop first?” He asked suddenly. Anna looked over at him.

“Yeah, okay. Where?”

“Bobby Singer’s.”

Anna’s jaw clenched. “Cas, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? I haven’t seen him in a week, and I need to talk to him. I’m not going to do it tomorrow at school, with tons of people watching.”

“Why, what are you planning?” Anna cocked an eyebrow at him. “Jumping on him and tearing off his clothes? Cause that definitely would be awkward to see at school.”

“No.” Cas said bluntly. “I think he’s going to break up with me. And I’d rather suffer that humiliation in private, and as soon as possible. You know – like ripping off a Band-Aid.”

Anna’s eyes widened. “Why do you think he’s going to dump you?”

Cas didn’t say anything, just looked out his window at the passing streetlights and snowy ditches.

“Cas,” Anna said, “I’m sure you’re wrong. He’s been miserable this entire past week – not even Sam can get a smile out of him. I don’t think he’s going to break up with you.”

Cas glanced at Anna. “I hope you’re right.”

    Bobby Singer’s house sat quietly amidst scrap cars and random bits of junk. The sun had gone down hours ago, and nearly every window in the place was glowing with warm light as Anna pulled into the yard. Cas blanched as he looked at it, wondering if this had been a good idea after all.

“You can change your mind, you know.” Anna said quietly, reading his mind.

“No.” Cas said, gripping the door handle and cracking it open. “This shouldn’t take long. I’ll be right back.”

The night air pooled around him as he stepped out, and his sneakers crunched against the snow as he walked up to the front door. He saw Bones push the closed drapes out of the way, his tail wagging furiously when he saw Cas. He didn’t bark, just dropped open his jaw in a big-toothed smile, tongue lolling out. Cas smiled. He was going to miss that dog.

Hands shaking, he knocked timidly on the door. He counted to five before it swung open, revealing Sam wearing an old pair of sweats and a baggy hoodie.

“Cas.” He said, eyes widening. To Castiel’s surprise, Sam stepped forward, wrapping a long arm around Cas’ shoulders and hugging him gently. Warm affection for the younger Winchester pooled in his stomach, and he returned the hug nervously.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Shit, it’s good to see you.” Sam said, stepping back and looking him up and down. “How’re you holding up?”

“Better.” Cas said, forcing a small smile. “Is, uh… is Dean here?”

Cas tried not to wince when he said his name, realizing he’d been avoiding saying it out loud since Dean had left his hospital room last week. Sam’s brow furrowed in concern.

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s upstairs. I’ll go get him. Come out of the cold, though. You look like you’re freezing.” Sam gently pulled Cas in from the front step, closing the door behind him. Cas stood in the entry way uncertainly as Sam disappeared down the hall and up a set of stairs.

Bobby’s house was a little different than he had imagined it. Cas had only seen the garage and yard, and it was crammed with old tools and vintage motor oil signs. The house, though, was filled with books and antique fixtures and small touches of feminine presence, like the flowers on the side table.

Cas felt a small ache as he looked at it.

Suddenly, Dean appeared down the stairs. He was wearing a wrinkled black t-shirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants, one of the legs rolled up to accommodate for the cast. He maneuvered the stairs with his crutches like a pro, but stopped when he reached the bottom and saw Cas. His eyes were lined with sleep and his hair was sticking up in random places, and he looked at Cas in confusion, as if he couldn’t decide if he was actually awake.

“Cas?” He croaked.

“Hello, Dean.” Cas said, feeling his heart drop to his knees. He’d thought he could handle this, but just one look at those green eyes and soft freckles, and he was silently wishing he’d just gone home.

“What are you doing here? Did you just get out?” He hobbled up to Cas, before abandoning the crutches and leaning against the door jam of the entryway instead.  

“Yeah.” Cas swallowed. “I just… I couldn’t wait until tomorrow. To see you. If you’re going to do it, then just do it, because I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight not knowing.”

“Do what?” Dean seemed genuinely confused.

“Break up with me. Call it all off.” Cas’ voice cracked a little.

“Cas, I don’t want to do that.” Dean’s forehead crinkled with pain. “But you’re leaving. So what am I supposed to do? You should take your chance at a fresh start.”

“We’re not leaving.” Cas said, and Dean blinked.

“What?”

“We’re not moving anymore.” Cas tried not to talk too fast, tried to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Bartholomew made me a deal. If the week went well – if I tried, then we could stay.”

Dean was quiet for a second, like he hardly dared believe it.

“And I tried.” Cas went on. “Fuck, Dean, I tried so hard. Because I want to get better. Because I want to stay here _with you.”_ Suddenly, a horrible thought occurred to him, and he paled. “You… you want me too, right? Or is that what this is about?”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, pain crossing his features. “Shit, Cas, of course I want you. I love you. But loving you doesn’t mean I get to _have_ you.”

“Why not?” Cas demanded, taking a step toward him. “Cause you can have me. I’m yours already.”

Dean looked at him miserably. “Don’t say that. Just… don’t. Get out while you can.”

“I’m so _sick_ of you thinking you don’t deserve this.” Cas snarled. “Fuck what you think you deserve. What do you want?”

Dean’s jaw clenched, and he looked away, wetness gathering in his eyes. Cas moved closer to him, getting into this space.

“What do you _want_ , Dean?”

“I…” Dean broke off, taking a breath. “I want to get out of this fucking city, and I want Sam to get out, too. I want to not have my dad in my life anymore. I want to go to college, I want to not have to hide, but mostly I want to see you and fucking be with you and feel like I deserve it. I really, really want that.”

Cas’ face softened, and timid happiness bloomed in his chest. “Was that so hard?”

Dean’s breath came out in a rush and his lip quirked up. “A little, yeah.” He reached out tentatively, hooking a finger in Cas’ belt loop. Cas moved closer and rested his forehead against Dean’s. “Fuck, I missed you.” Dean said shakily.

Cas smiled, feeling relief pool through him. He reached up and wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck, and Dean let himself slump into him, folding his arms around Cas’ waste and burying his face in his neck.

“I saw your painting.” He said, voice muffled. “The one with the wings. And I get it, now. You were trying to tell someone.”

Cas closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. “Yeah. But don’t worry – I think I should try talking with words, now.”

    

There was a line in one of Dean’s favourite books that went, “I wish I could say that everything went back to normal, but it didn’t. Especially me.”

This was exactly like that. Sure, a lot of things were easy: like living with Bobby and Ellen, and taking each day at school to be reminded of what it feels like to hold Cas’ hand. But there was still a lot that was hard.

John called every so often from rehab. Just to check in. Sam answered grudgingly, relaying small bits of information and giving mostly one-word answers, but Dean refused to go to the phone. Nobody forced it on him. _Baby steps,_ he thought to himself, although he wasn’t sure if those steps would ultimately take him a little closer to his dad or farther away. But he realized that that was his choice.

He braved his way through surgery, and then physical therapy. The cuts on his arms faded to jagged scars. The Skyline became scraps in Bobby’s yard, and strangely, Dean found he missed it: the fabric of the seats that smelled like Cas, the steady hum of the engine. Cas seemed nothing but happy to be rid of it.

Dean still had bad nights. Nights where he couldn’t sleep. Nights where nightmares shook him awake and the tremors lasted until morning. Coming off the meds from his surgery was torture in itself, and on a particularly bad night Sam nearly had to threaten him with violence to stop him from calling Meg for an under-the-counter refill.

But those were just some nights.

Meanwhile, Cas tried to be okay with watching the cuts on his arms heal again. When the lows came, which they inevitably did, he went to Dean or called Bartholomew or let Anna talk him down. He tried to define the balance between being strong and asking for help, and he tried to not be discouraged by how hard it was.

Until, slowly, it got easier.

 

*

 

“This is useless.” Dean growled, flopping down on his bed. Another pair of jeans lay discarded on the floor, and he was back in his sweatpants. “I hate this fucking cast. Nothing is comfortable. I’m not going to Charlie’s party in a pair of fucking sweatpants.” 

“Maybe Jo can lend you a dress.” Cas teased, not looking up from where he was sketching at Dean’s desk. Dean had requested he have a few sketches to put up in his new room, and there were already a few tacked up by his bed – quick but pristine drawings of angels with full, smooth wings. 

“Ha-ha.” Dean intoned. “Seriously, though – I hate New Year’s. What a shit holiday. Why do we have to dress up? Nobody’s going to remember anything; they’ll be too drunk.”

Cas dropped his pencil, turning in his chair to look at Dean. He was scowling up at the ceiling, his arms spread out beside him and his clothes in disarray. For the better part of an hour he’d been sorting through his clothes, trying to find something that was remotely comfortable, but nothing was working. They were supposed to be at Charlie’s ages ago.  

Cas couldn’t really blame Dean for being in a shitty mood: he’d had a physio appointment that afternoon, one of three each week, and Cas knew those appointments were gruelling and painful. His surgery had been three weeks ago, and building up Dean’s muscle strength again was a torturous process.

Quietly, Cas got up, walking over to the bed and sitting down beside Dean. The rest of the house was deserted: Sam and Jo were already at Charlie’s, and Ellen and Bobby had gone out for their own New Year’s celebrations. The only sound was the music playing softly from Dean’s stereo. Cas looked down at Dean, at the planes of his chest pressing against his t-shirt and the hipbones disappearing beneath his pants, and heat curled around his spine.

“We don’t have to go, you know.” He hedged. Dean’s eyes slid over to his.

“Charlie would kill us.” He said.

“Kill might be excessive.” Cas tilted his head. “Seriously injure, maybe. But honestly, I’m willing to risk it. Let’s just… stay here. I don’t feel like going out anyways.”

Dean’s eyebrow quirked up. “But it’s New Year’s. Don’t you want to go out?”

Cas rolled his eyes. “Me? Of course not. I don’t want to be around other people. I don’t want to share you.”

At that, Dean’s eyebrows shot up, a slow, dirty smile spreading across his lips. Cas blushed, but he didn’t care. With everything that had happened in the last month – the fights, the accident, the injuries – it seemed like it had been ages since Cas had been close with Dean. Now, the ache inside him was so sharp it was painful.

Moving carefully, Cas lowered himself to Dean and kissed him. He kept his body still, not wanting to jostle his leg or hurt him. His own ribs ached at the exertion, but he ignored them.

Dean pressed up into Cas eagerly, wrapping a hand behind his neck and pulling him down. Cas’ tongue darted across his lips, and Dean opened his mouth and let Cas in, the taste of him tingling on his tongue. Rotating his hips, Cas brought one leg to rest between Dean’s, and he ground his hip a little against Dean’s growing erection. 

Dean groaned softly. “Cas…”

“Still want to go to that party?” Cas whispered, surprising himself with this sudden spurt of self-confidence. It wasn’t just confidence, though; it was downright hunger, all the pent-up energy and angst of the past month building inside him.

“What party?” Dean breathed, and Cas chuckled softly before kissing him again, impossibly slow and deep and needy.

Dean’s breath hitched, and he bucked his hips up a little, chasing the hot friction of Cas against him. There was a humming in his chest and lust corkscrewed itself around his spine. Everything about him felt worn out and sore, but each soft touch from Cas was slowly piecing him back together. 

Cas pulled away from him and whispered, “Sit up.”

Obediently, Dean pushed himself into a sitting position. Cas straddled his good leg as he pulled Dean’s shirt over his head, and then tossed it onto the floor. The bedside lamp made the room dim, but not dark, and Cas took a moment to drink in the sight of Dean’s bare skin: the muscles of his arms, the collar bones pressing against his skin, the softness of his stomach. He licked his lips a little, eyes flicking up to Dean’s hungrily.

Cas reached one hand around Dean’s neck, burying his fingers in his hair and gently pulling his head back a little to expose his neck. He leaned in and pressed open-mouthed kisses along the flushed skin there, nibbling gently, and Dean gasped softly. Cas had no idea what had gotten into him; why all he could think about was this intense _need._ His chest was burning with it.

Dean closed his eyes, mouth gaping open at the feeling of Cas’ hot mouth searing wet kisses into his skin. Trembling, he reached out and grabbed fistfuls of Cas’ sweater. Cas broke away, letting Dean pull it off over his head, and then he was pushing Dean back down into the bed. 

As Cas hovered above him, Dean pressed kisses across his bare shoulders and chest, his hands running lightly over the healing marks on his arms before circling around and pressing into the small of his back. Cas let his body dip down, chest and stomach pressing against Dean’s, and the sensation of hot skin on skin made a low groan rip from Dean’s throat.

Cas smoothed his hand down Dean’s side, gripping his hip and pressing circles into his skin with his thumb. Dean’s lips trembled and his eyes squeezed shut. The pressure of Cas’ thumb on his hip sent spasms through his muscles, radiating out to his groin, and he panted because _holy fuck, was that supposed to be that intense of an erogenous zone?_

“Feel good?” Cas whispered.

“Fuck, yes.” Dean brought his lips to Cas’ again, pressing his hip into Cas’ hand as best he could with that stupid useless leg weighing him down. Cas released his grip, moving instead to the waistband of Dean’s loose sweatpants and tugging them a little down his hips.

Cas pulled away and Dean lifted up off the pillow, trying to chase his lips. Cas moved down to Dean’s collarbones, kissing the soft skin reverently as he made his way slowly down his chest and stomach. He kept pulling at Dean’s pants as he went, and when he got to Dean’s cast, his fingers gently worked the fabric around it. Cas was so patient and slow, hardly even touching the cast at all as he tugged the pants down and off Dean’s legs. He threw them in a heap on the floor, his socks following. 

Dean watched him, his heart jumping painfully in his chest. As Cas crawled back overtop of him, he cursed that damn cast more than he ever had before; he was aching to wrap both legs around Cas’ waist and drag him down, or to flip him around and pin Cas to the bed beneath him. Instead he was forced to watch helplessly as Cas lowered himself over Dean’s navel and kissed the sensitive skin beneath his belly button.

Trembling, Dean let his head fall back, his eyes fluttering shut. Cas’ hand gripped his side again, holding him in place as he licked a hot, wet stripe along his hip. A violent shiver wracked up Dean’s spine and his cock jumped, straining against his boxers. 

“ _Shit_ , Cas,” He gasped, “Where did you learn to do this?”

Cas brought himself back up to Dean’s lips, giving him an open-mouthed, dirty kiss.

“I dunno. I’m going by instinct.” He whispered roughly. Dean tried to catch his breath.

“Well, keep going.” He said, and Cas smiled wolfishly before kissing him again. Head spinning, Dean reached up and found the button on Cas’ pants, undoing it hastily before tugging at the fabric with impatience. Cas pulled away and helped him, twisting and pulling off the jeans and his socks, discarding them on the floor with everything else. 

As Cas slotted his body along Dean’s, he fought to regain some self-control. He wanted to press him down into the bed, wanted to grind his aching cock against Dean’s until they were both sweaty and panting, but he knew he was getting ahead of himself. His ribs had started to ache in protest as his heart rate skyrocketed, and he didn’t want to risk hurting Dean in his hastiness, either. So he slowed down, giving Dean a gentle, lingering kiss as he trailed his fingers lightly across the skin above his boxers.

Dean reached up, smoothing his hands over Cas’ stomach, before moving them around to his back. Cas felt Dean’s fingers dip beneath the fabric of his boxers and his hands slipped lower, grabbing his bare ass. Cas’ breath hitched, and he let Dean’s hands grip him and grind him down, his hard cock demanding against his. Cas panted into Dean’s mouth.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” Dean breathed, taking Cas’ bottom lip between his teeth. Ignoring the dull ache in his leg, he rocked his hips up into Cas, and the boy groaned in response.

“Dean…” He whispered, his cock throbbing and needy. He could feel the heat and strain beneath Dean’s boxers, so he reached down and hooked his fingers inside the fabric. Then he pulled away and looked at Dean, feeling the hunger glinting in his eyes. 

Dean’s own eyes were dark and lust-addled, but he took a breath and asked quietly, “Are you sure?”

Licking his lips, Cas nodded. Dean smiled and pulled him down again, their mouths meeting in wet heat as he arched his body up into Cas. Blood pounding, Cas pulled Dean’s boxers off as carefully as he had his pants, stretching them overtop the cast before pulling them off his legs.

Cas felt heat coloring his cheeks as he looked at Dean, naked and stretched out beneath him. Biting his lip, Dean reached up and grasped the fabric of Cas’ boxers and pulled them off before throwing them to the floor.

Trembling, Cas braced his hands on either side of Dean, hovering above him for a second as their eyes locked. Then Dean leaned up, pressing his mouth to his as Cas let his hips sink down.

Slowly, they both lost any sense of time or place completely. Their entire existence seemed to balance precariously on a hundred burning details: the heat, the jut of their hips pressing together, the burning _need_ making them both dizzy. It took every ounce of patience and self-reserve he was capable of for Cas to go slow, making sure Dean was with him and ready, carefully hooking his good leg up around his hip.

Cas’ hands gripped the sheets when he sank into Dean, and Dean’s lips stalled against his throat as he whimpered, the lines between pain and pleasure blurring and rippling as Cas moved inside him. Dean could tell Cas was holding himself back, not daring to chance hurting him, but it was ridiculous how much Dean didn’t care; he reached up and pulled Cas closer.

Cas pressed his forehead into Dean’s neck, his breath ragged and hot, and Dean let his mouth drop open as whines and moans were pulled from him with each thrust. He was almost delirious with the feeling of Cas, that hot fullness pressing against his spine and up to the back of his throat, making stars shoot across his vision. He was dimly aware of the sounds he was making, of Cas’ teeth sinking into the skin of his shoulder, of his hands finding Cas’ and their fingers twining together and gripping until their knuckles were white. 

Cas forced himself to take his time, wanting to slowly push Dean to the very edge and soak up every second of it he could. Hey knew they were both new to this and inexperienced, but it didn't seem to matter: their bodies felt too good as they fused together, each roll of his hips aching like heaven. Dean was like a storm of tight heat, and Cas buried himself in it, tasting the salt from Dean’s skin on his tongue. He felt his stomach muscles rippling with pleasure, intensifying gradually, and he lifted his head. His parted lips were inches from Dean’s, but they didn’t kiss, just panted and breathed with each other as if they needed to share the same air.

The heat deepened, and Cas circled his hips a little, chasing his orgasm. Dean cried out as Cas hit that bundle of nerves inside him, again and again, and it felt like Cas was wrecking him and pulling him apart just to press him back together. He was panting and whining and Cas was whimpering his name when the muscles in Cas’ arms tensed; he arched into Dean as his orgasm punched through him. Seconds later, Dean bit into Cas’ shoulder to muffle the shout as he came completely untouched. His eyes squeezed shut and hot waves of pleasure sent sparks of white across his closed eyelids, his muscles locking into place as he rode the aftershock.

Slowly, they both came back down. Dean released Cas’ hands, flexing his cramped fingers as Cas pulled out and slumped on top of him, not caring about Dean’s stickiness between their bodies. He laid his head on Dean’s chest as he caught his breath. Dean looked up at the ceiling, warm happiness spreading through his limbs as his own breathing slowed.

“Fuck.” He whispered after a moment, splaying his arms out on either side of him, “We waited way too long to start doing that.”

Cas chuckled softly. “I know. I guess we have lost time to make up for.” 

“Damn right we do.” Dean replied, and Cas reached out with his hand, settling it into Dean’s open palm. Dean let their fingers twine together again, enjoying the reassuring weight of Cas resting on top of him. As drowsiness settled between them, Cas became aware of the music still playing quietly from Dean’s stereo.

“Now I really don’t think we’re going to make it to that party.” He said after a while. Dean snorted. 

“I’m lying naked in my bed with you. I don’t care about a fucking party.” He mumbled, and Cas laughed softly. “What time is it, anyway?”

Cas squinted, focusing on the digital clock beside Sam’s bed across the room.

“11:45.” He replied. Dean lifted his other hand and began to trace his fingers up and down Cas’ spine soothingly. Cas closed his eyes and sighed, drifting comfortably along the line between sleep and consciousness. 

“Cas.” Dean said after a while. 

“Hmm?” 

“One minute.”

Cas peeled open his eyes. The clock across the room read 11:59.

Usually, this was the time when a lot of people reflected back on the year. The high points, the lows, the mistakes and the victories. But Dean didn’t want to, so he just let it all go, watching the numbers blink to 12:00.

Cas lifted his head, leaning up to kiss Dean softly.

“Happy New Year, Cas.” Dean said softly.

“Happy New Year.” Cas smiled, then tilted his head. “Any resolutions?”

“Yeah. My resolution is to spend next New Year’s doing exactly this, with you.” 

“Lying around naked when we should be out socializing?” Cas cocked an eyebrow.

“Exactly.” Dean replied, pressing a kiss to Cas’ forehead. Cas smiled.

“I like that resolution.”

Silence settled around them. Dean’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and Cas let that post-orgasm boneless-ness hum through his joints. Everything in that small room suddenly seemed so perfect. The soft cotton sheets, the guitar sitting in the corner, the windowpane letting in light from the winter moon outside. Cas peeked up at the walls, seeing his own sketches staring back at him, and the song on the stereo ended and another one started. And Cas realized maybe this was all he needed: the reassuring airwaves of Dean’s music, and the comforting protection of his own angels.

 


	17. Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you have probably suspected, I obviously cannot stand not-happy endings. So this fic is ending on an unbelievably sappy and fluffy note. 
> 
> I have been very timidly toying with the idea of making a part two, which would be set when the boys are a few years into college. But I'm not sure. I have a few other Destiel AU's in the works right now, so I'm going to dedicate my time to those first. 
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading!

 “Fuck fuck _fuck_.” Dean cursed under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut as the plane jostled a little around him.

“It’s alright.” Cas soothed quietly, glancing out the window. The early September sunlight reflected off the plane’s wings. “We’re just taxying to the runway. We haven’t even started to take off yet.”

"Yeah, and what happens then?” Dean demanded. “Has anyone stopped to question how the hell this tin can is gonna end up in the air?”        

“They’ve had the mechanics of it worked out for years, Dean.” Cas tried not to smile.

“That’s not very reassuring.” Dean gripped the armrests tightly and his knee started to bounce in agitation. He looked past Cas out the window. “They thought they had the mechanics of ships worked out when the Titanic sank.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “You’re such a drama queen.”

Dean ignored him, biting his lip as he took out the safety instructions for the twentieth time and flipped through them. “We should have driven to New York.”

“We went over this.” Cas said. “Neither of us has a car, unless you want to fit both of us and all our shit on the back of your motorcycle. Besides, we aren’t going to need a car in New York, right?”

“Yeah, but if we rented something, we could be safely on the highway right now.” Dean shoved the pamphlet back in the seat. “We could have rented a mini van for all I care – it’s gotta be better than this.”

“Dean, you know from experience that cars are just as dangerous as planes. If not, more.”

“Yeah, if you wanna get statistical about it.” Dean watched the stewardess up front like a hawk. “I’m going with gut feeling. Does that stewardess look a little off to you?”

Cas looked at Dean, and then to the stewardess at the front of the plane. She was checking the straps that were securing a beverage cart in place. “She looks fine, Dean. She’s doing her job.”

“I don’t trust her.” Dean narrowed his eyes.

“She’s a stewardess.” Cas began to slowly pry Dean’s fingers from his armrest. “If you want to worry about anyone, worry about the pilots.”

“Why? What’s wrong with the pilots?” Dean looked at Cas, eyes wide. Cas gave an exasperated breath.

“Holy shit, Dean. I knew you were nervous about flying, but this is crazy.” Slowly, he began to work the tension from Dean’s fingers. Dean’s face relaxed, but only a little.  

He knew he shouldn’t be freaking out this much. Really, he should be excited, and proud. His classes at NYU started in a few days, and he had not only one, but two scholarships paying his way through. Cas got accepted to SVA, and even had Bartholomew’s grudging support. They’d made it. But then again, he felt like it would be just his luck that this plane would crash before they actually got there.

Suddenly, the captain came over the speakers, informing them they were about to take off. The engine whirred, growing louder from the back of the plane.

“Son of a bitch.” Dean squeezed his eyes shut again, the blood draining from his face. Cas twined his fingers with his, and Dean squeezed so hard that his knuckles turned white.

“Ow,” Cas flinched, “You’re breaking my hand.”

“Sorry.” Dean loosened his grip a little.

Pursing his lips, Cas lifted the armrest from between them and scooted closer to Dean, the reassuring weight of their legs pressing together. With a lurch, the plane shifted forward, cruising steadily down the runway before picking up speed.

Dean’s eyes squeezed shut tighter.

“It’s fine. The takeoff is the worst part, trust me.” Cas said, gritting his teeth as Dean’s grip tightened around his hand again. The plane gained momentum, the landscape out the window blurring as the sound of rushing air and roaring engine pressed in around them.

Finally, the plane’s nose picked up and the aircraft left the ground. A sickening lurch made Cas’ stomach drop. Dean reached up with his other hand, clamping it across his mouth as his face went instantly green.

 _Please, God, don’t let him throw up._ Cas prayed silently.

Dean stayed like that until the plane slowly levelled off. Then, timidly, he dropped his hand and opened his eyes.

“What did I tell you?” Cas asked quietly, prying his hand from Dean’s.

“Don’t speak too soon.” Dean said shakily. “This flight isn’t over. We still have, like, five hours to go. How am I going to survive for that long?”

Fed up, Cas grabbed Dean’s chin in his hand and turned his face toward him, before crushing his mouth against his. Dean instantly melted, the tension leaking out of his muscles as Cas coaxed his lips open, his tongue tracing along his teeth and across the roof of his mouth. Dean sighed shakily and leaned into him.

After a moment, Cas pulled away. He looked into Dean’s eyes and said firmly,

“You’ll survive. You got me.”

Dean blinked, all trace of fear leaving his face as he stated simply, “I got you.”

   

 


End file.
